DANTE  AND  HIS  CIRCLE 

WITH 

THE    ITALIAN    POETS    PRECEDING    HIM. 
(i  100 — 1 200 — 1300.) 

A    COLLECTION  OF  LYRICS, 

EDITED,  AND  TRANSLATED   IN   THE   ORIGINAL   METRES, 

BY 

DANTE   GABRIEL   ROSSETTI. 
l^cijiseU  aniJ  Ec*arrangeti  3£ìJition. 


PART  L 
Dante's  Vita  Nuova,  etc.  — Poets  of  Dante's  Circle 

PART   II. 
Poets  chiefly  before  Dante. 


tT0^\^. 


BOSTON: 

LHTLE,  BROWN,  AND   COMPANY, 

1899. 


JEntfierstta  5res0: 
John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge. 


Eo  mg  JHotljet 


/  DEDICATE    THIS  NEW  EDITION  OP  A  BOOK 
PRIZED  BY  HER  LOVE. 


L'661^7 


ADVERTISEMENT  TO   THE   EDITION 

OF    1874. 


IN  re-entitling  and  re-arranging  this  book  (originally  pub- 
lished in  1861  as  The  Early  Italian  Poets)  my  object 
has  been  to  make  more  evident  at  a  first  glance  its  important 
relation  to  Dante.  The  Vita  Nuova,  together  with  the 
many  among  Dante's  lyrics  and  those  of  his  contemporaries 
which  elucidate  their  personal  intercourse,  are  here  assembled, 
and  brought  to  my  best  ability  into  clear  connection,  in  a 
manner  not  elsewhere  attempted  even  by  Italian  or  German 
editors. 


PREFACE  TO   THE   FIRST   EDITION 

(1861). 


I  NEED  not  dilate  here  on  the  characteristics  of  the  first 
epoch  of  Italian  Poetry,  since  the  extent  of  my  trans- 
lated selections  is  sufficient  to  afford  a  complete  view  of  it. 
Its  great  beauties  may  often  remain  unapproached  in  the. 
versions  here  attempted  ;  but,  at  the  same  time,  its  imperfec- 
tions are  not  all  to  be  charged  to  the  translator.  Among 
these  I  may  refer  to  its  limited  range  of  subject  and  continual 
obscurity,  as  well  as  to  its  monotony  in  the  use  of  rhymes  or 
frequent  substitution  of  assonances.  But  to  compensate  for 
much  that  is  incomplete  and  inexperienced,  these  poems 
possess,  in  their  degree,  beauties  of  a  kind  which  can  never 
again  exist  in  art  ;  and  offer,  besides,  a  treasure  of  grace  and 
variety  in  the  formation  of  their  metres.  Nothing  but  a  strong 
impression,  first  of  their  poetic  value,  and  next  of  the  bio- 
graphical interest  of  some  of  them  (chiefly  of  those  in  my  first 
division),  would  have  inclined  me  to  bestow  the  time  and 
trouble  which  have  resulted  in  this  collection. 

Much  has  been  said,  and  in  many  respects  justly,  against 
the  value  of  metrical  translation.  But  I  think  it  would  be 
admitted  that  the  tributary  art  might  find  a  not  illegitimate 
use  in  the  case  of  poems  which  come  down  to  us  in  such  a 
form  as  do  these  early  Italian  ones.  Struggling  originally 
with  corrupt  dialect  and  imperfect  expression,  and  hardly 
kept  alive  through  centuries  of  neglect,  they  have  reached 
that  last  and  worst  state  in  which  the  coup-de-grace  has 
almost  been  dealt  them  by  clumsy  transcription  and  pedantic 
superstructure.  At  this  stage  the  task  of  talking  much  more 
about  them  in  any  language  is  hardly  to  be  entered  upon  ; 


vili  Preface. 

and  a  translation  (involving  as  it  does  the  necessity  of  setdir.g 
many  points  without  discussion)  remains  perhaps  the  most 
direct  form  of  commentary. 

The  life-blood  of  rhythmical  translation  is  this  command- 
ment, ■ —  that  a  good  poem  shall  not  be  turned  into  a  bad 
one.  The  only  true  motive  for  putdng  poetry  into  a  fresh 
language  must  be  to  endow  a  fresh  nation,  as  far  as  possible, 
with  one  more  possession  of  beauty.  Poetry  not  being  an 
exact  science,  literality  of  rendering  is  altogether  secondary 
to  this  chief  law.  I  say  literality,  —  not  fidelity,  which  is  by 
no  means  the  same  thing.  When  literality  can  be  combined 
with  what  is  thus  the  primary  condition  of  success,  the  trans- 
lator is  fortunate,  and  must  strive  his  utmost  to  unite  them  ; 
when  such  object  can  only  be  attained  by  paraphrase,  that  is 
his  only  path. 

Any  merit  possessed  by  these  translations  is  derived  from 
an  effort  to  follow  this  principle  ;  and,  in  some  degree,  from 
the  fact  that  such  painstaking  in  arrangement  and  descriptive 
heading  as  is  often  indispensable  to  old  and  especially  to 
"  occasional  "  poetry,  has  here  been  bestowed  on  these  poets 
for  the  first  time. 

That  there  are  many  defects  in  this  collection,  or  that  the 
above  merit  is  its  defect,  or  that  it  has  no  merits  but  only 
defects,  are  discoveries  so  sure  to  be  made  if  necessary  (or 
perhaps  here  and  there  in  any  case),  that  I  may  safely  leave 
them  in  other  hands.  The  series  has  probably  a  wider  scope 
than  some  readers  might  look  for,  and  includes  now  and 
then  (though  I  believe  in  rare  instances)  matter  which  may 
not  meet  with  universal  approval  ;  and  whose  introduction, 
needed  as  it  is  by  the  literary  aim  of  my  work,  is  I  know 
inconsistent  with  the  principles  of  pretty  bookmaking.  My 
wish  has  been  to  give  a  full  and  truthful  view  of  early 
Italian  poetry  ;  not  to  make  it  appear  to  consist  only  of 
certain  elements  to  the  exclusion  of  others  equally  belonging 
to  it. 

Of  the  difficulties  I  have  had  to  encounter,  —  the  causes 
of  imperfections  for  which  I  have  no  other  excuse,  —  it  is 
the  reader's  best  privilege  to  remain  ignorant;  but  I  may 
perhaps  be  pardoned  for  briefly  referring  to  such  among 
these  as  concern  the  exigencies  of  translation.  The  task  of 
the  translator  (and  with  all  humility  be  it  spoken)  is  one  of 
some  self-denial.    Often  would  he  avail  himself  of  any  special 


Preface.  ix 

grace  of  his  own  idiom  and  epoch,  if  only  his  will  belonged 
to  him  :  often  would  some  cadence  serve  him  but  for  his 
author's  structure  —  some  structure  but  for  his  author's 
cadence  :  often  the  beautiful  turn  of  a  stanza  must  be  weak- 
ened to  adopt  some  rhyme  which  will  tally,  and  he  sees  the 
poet  revelling  in  abundance  of  language  where  himself  is 
scantily  supplied.  Now  he  would  slight  the  matter  for  the 
music,  and  now  the  music  for  the  matter;  but  no,  —  he  must 
deal  to  each  alike.  Sometimes  too  a  flaw  in  the  work  galls 
him,  and  he  would  fain  remove  it,  doing  for  the  poet  that 
which  his  age  denied  him  ;  but  no,  —  it  is  not  in  the  bond. 
His  path  is  like  that  of  Aladdin  through  the  enchanted  vaults  : 
many  are  the  precious  fruits  and  flowers  which  he  nmst  pass 
by  unheeded  in  search  for  the  lamp  alone  ;  happy  if  at  last, 
when  brought  to  light,  it  does  not  prove  that  his  old  lamp 
has  been  exchanged  for  a  new  one,  —  ghttering  indeed  to 
the  eye,  but  scarcely  of  the  same  virtue  nor  with  the  same 
genius  at  its  summons. 

In  relinquishing  this  work  (which,  small  as  it  is,  is  the  only 
contribution  I  expect  to  make  to  our  English  knowledge  of 
old  Italy),  I  feel,  as  it  were,  divided  from  my  youth.  The 
first  associations  I  have  are  connected  with  my  father's  de- 
voted studies,  which,  from  his  own  point  of  view,  have  done 
so  much  towards  the  general  investigation  of  Dante's  writ- 
ings. Thus,  in  those  early  days,  all  around  me  partook  of 
the  influence  of  the  great  Florentine  ;  till,  from  viewing  it  as 
a  natural  element,  I  also,  growing  older,  was  drawn  within 
the  circle.  I  trust  that  from  this  the  reader  may  place  more 
confidence  in  a  work  not  carelessly  undertaken,  though  pro- 
duced in  the  spare-time  of  other  pursuits  more  closely  fol- 
lowed. He  should  perhaps  be  told  that  it  has  occupied  the 
leisure  moments  of  not  a  few  years  ;  thus  affording,  often 
at  long  intervals,  every  opportunity  for  consideration  and 
revision  ;  and  that  on  the  score  of  care,  at  least,  he  has  no 
need  to  mistrust  it.  Nevertheless,  I  know  there  is  no  great 
stir  to  be  made  by  launching  afresh,  on  high- seas  busy  with 
new  traffic,  the  ships  which  have  been  long  outstripped  and 
the  ensigns  which  are  grown  strange. 

It  may  be  well  to  conclude  this  short  preface  with  a  list  of 
the  works  which  have  chiefly  contributed  to  the  materials  of 
the  present  volume.  An  array  of  modern  editions  hardly 
looks  so  imposing  as  might  a  reference  to  Allacci,  Crescim- 


X  Preface. 

beni,  etc.  ;  but  these  older  collections  would  be  found  less 
accessible,  and  all  they  contain  has  been  reprinted. 

I.  Poeti   del    primo   secolo   della   Lingua   Italiana.      2   vol. 
(Firenze.     1816.) 

II.  Raccolta  di  Rime  antiche  Toscane.     4  voi.     (Palermo. 
1817.) 

III.  Manuale  della  Letteratura  del  primo  Secolo,  del  Prof. 
V.  Nannucci.     3  voi.     (Firenze.     1843.) 

IV.  Poesie  Italiane  inedite  di  Dugento  Autori  :  raccolte  da 
Francesco  Trucchi.     4  voi.     (Prato.     1846.) 

V.  Opere    Minori  di   Dante.     Edizione  di   P.    I.   Fraticelli. 
(Firenze.     1843,  etc.) 

VI.  Rime  di  Guido  Cavalcanti  ;  raccolte  da  A.  Cicciaporci. 
(Firenze.     1813.) 

VII.  Vita  e  Poesie  di  Messer  Cino  da  Pistoia.     Edizione  di 
S.  Ciampi.     (Pisa.     1813.) 

VIII.  Documenti   d'Amore;    di    Francesco   da   Barberino. 
Annotati  da  F.  Ubaldini.     (Roma.     1640.) 

IX.  Del  Reggimento  e  dei  Costumi  delle  Donne  ;  di  Fran- 
cesco da  Barberino.     (Roma.     181 5.) 

X.  Il  Dittamondo  di  Fazio  degli  Uberti.     (Milano.     1826.) 


CONTENTS. 


PART    I.- 
DANTE  AND    HIS    CIRCLE. 

PAGE 

J  Introduction  to  Part  i i 
Dante  Alighieri. 

The  New  Life.     {La  Vita  Nuova,) 25 

Sonnet  (to  Brunetto  Latini).    Sent  with  the  Vita  Nuova  79 

Sonnet.     Of  Beatrice  de'  Portinari,  on  All  Saints' Day   .     .  79 
Sonnet.     To  certain  Ladies;  when  Beatrice  was  latnenting 

her  Father'' s  Death 80 

Sonnet.      To  the  same  Ladies  ;  with  their  Answer  ....  80 

Ballata.     He  will  gaze  upon  Beatrice 81 

Canzone.     A  Complaint  of  his  Lady's  Scorn 81 

Canzone.     He  beseeches  Death  for  the  Life  of  Beatrice      .     .  8^ 

Sonnet.     On  the  gth  of  June,  1290 85 

Sonnet  (to  Cino  da  Pistoia).    He  rebukes  Cino  for  Fickle- 

ness 85 

Sonnet  (Cino  to  Dante).     He  answers  Dante,  confessing 

his  unsteadfast  Heart 86 

Sonnet  (to  Cino  da  Pistoia).     Written  in  Exile   ...  86 
Sonnet  (Cino  to  Dante).     He  answers  the  foregoing  Son- 
net (by  Dante),  and  prays  him,  in  the  name  of  Beatrice, 

to  continue  his  great  Poem 87 

Sonnet.     Of  Beauty  and  Duty 87 

Sestina.     Of  the  Lady  Pietra  degli  Scrovigni 88 

Sonnet.     A  Curse  for  a  fruitless  Lffue 89 

Guido  Cavalcanti. 

Sonnet   (to   Dante  Alighieri).     He  interprets  Dante's 

Dream,  related  in  the  first  Sonnet  of  the  Vita  Nuova    .     .  go 

Sonnet.      To  his  Lady  Joan,  of  Florence 91 

Sonnet.     He  compares  all  Things  with  his  Lady,  and  finds 

them  wanting 9' 

Sonnet.     A  Rapture  coiicerning  his  Lady 92 


xii  Contents. 


PAGE 

Ballata.     Of  his  Lady  aviong  other  Ladies 92 

Sonnet  (to   Guido   Orlandi).     Of  a  consecrated  Image 

resembling  his  Lady 93 

Madrigal  (Guido  Orlandi  to  Cavalcanti).    In  anszver 

to  the  foregoing  Son7iet  [by  Cavalcanti) 93 

Sonnet.     Of  the  Eyes  of  a  certain  Mandetta,  of  ThouloKse, 

which  rese?nble  those  of  his  Lady  yoan,  of  Florence     ...       94 
Ballata.     He  7'eveals,  in  a  Dialogue,  his  increasing  Love  for 

Mandetta 94 

Sonnet  (Dante  Alighieri  to  Guido  Cavalcanti).  He 
imagines  a  pleasant  voyage  for  Guido,  Lapo  Gianni,  and 

himself  with  their  three  Ladies 96 

Sonnet  (to  Dante  Alighieri).  He  anstvers  the  foregoing 
Sonnet  [by  Dante),  speaking  with  shame  of  his  changed 

Love 97 

Sonnet  (to  Dante  Alighieri).     He  reports,  in  a  feigned 

Vision,  the  successful  issue  of  Lapo  Gianni'' s  Love  ...       97 
Sonnet  (to  Dante  Alighieri).     He  mistrusts  the  Love  of 

Lapo  Gianni 98 

Sonnet.     On  the  Detection  of  a  false  Friend 98 

Sonnet.     He  speaks  of  a  third  Love  of  his 99 

Ballata.     Of  a  continual  Death  in  Love 99 

Sonnet.      To  a  Frieiid  who  does  not  pity  his  Love    ....     100 
Ballata.    He  perceives  that  his  highest  Love  is  gone  from  him     100 

Sonnet.     Of  his  Pain  from  a  neiv  Lave loi 

Prolonged  Sonnet  (Guido  Orlandi  to  Guido  Caval- 
canti).    He  finds  fault  with  the  Conceits  of  the  foi-egoing 

Sonnet  [by  Cavalcanti) 102 

Sonnet  (Gianni  Alfani  to  Guido  Cavalcanti).     Oji 

the  part  of  a  Lady  of  Fisa 102 

Sonnet  (Bernardo  da  Bologna  to  Guido  Cavalcanti). 
He  writes  to  Guido,  telling  him  of  the  Love  which  a  cer- 
tain Pinella  showed  on  seeing  him 103 

Sonnet  (to  Bernardo  da  Bologna).  Guido  answers, 
commending  Pinella,  and  saying  that  the  Love  he  can  offer 

her  is  already  shared  by  many  noble  Ladies 103 

Sonnet  (Dino  Compagni  to  Guido  Cavalcanti).     He 

reproves  Guido  for  his  Arrogance  in  Lave  .     ...     .     .     .      104 

Sonnet  (to  Guido  Orlandi).     /;/  Praise  of  Guido   Or- 

landPs  Lady IG4 

Sonnet  (Guido  Orlandi  to  Guido  Cavalcanti).  He 
answers  the  foregoing  Sojinet  {by  Cavalcatiti),  declaring 

himself  his  Lady's  Champion 105 

Sonnet  (to  Dante  Alighieri).     He  rebukes  Dante  for  his 

way  of  Life,  after  the  Death  of  Beatrice 105 

Ballata.     Concerning  a  Shepherd-maid 106 

Sonnet.     Of  an  illfavored  Lady 107 

Sonnet  (to  Pope  Boniface  VIII. ).  After  the  Pope's  In- 
terdict, when  the  Great  Houses  were  leaving  Florence  .     .     107 

Ballata.     In  Exile  at  Sarzana 108 

Canzone.     A  Song  of  Fortune 109 

Canzone.     A  Song  against  Poverty i  ii 


Contents.  xiii 


PAGE 

Canzone.     He  laments  the  Preswnptioit  and  liicontinetice  of 

his  Youth 113 

Canzone.     A  Dispute  with  Death 115 

CiNO  DA  Pistoia. 

Sonnet  (to  Dante  Alighieri).     He  interprets  Dante's 

Drea?n  related  in  the  first  Sonnet  of  the  Vita  Nuova    .     .  118 
Canzone  (to  Dante  Alighieri).    On  the  Death  of  Beatrice 

Portinari 119 

Sonnet  (to  Dante  Alighieri).    He  conceives  of  some  Com- 
pensation in  Death I2l 

Madrigal.      To  his  Lady  Selvaggia  Vergiolesi  ;  likening  his 

Love  to  a  Search  for  Gold 121 

Sonnet.     To  Love,  in  great  Bitterness 122 

Sonnet.     Death  is  not  without  but  within  him 122 

Sonnet.     A  Trance  of  Love 123 

Sonnet.     Of  the  Grave  of  Selvaggia,  on  the  Monte  della 

Sambuca 123 

Canzone.     His  Lament  for  Selvaggia 1 24 

Sonnet    (to   Guido  Cavalcanti).    He  owes  nothing  to 

Guido  as  a  Poet 125 

Sonnet.     He  impugns  the  verdicts  of  Dante^s  Commedia  .     .  125 
Sonnet.     He  condenuis  Dante  for  not  naming,  in  the  Comme- 
dia, his  friend  Onesto  di  Bonciìna,  and  his  L.ady  Selvafgia  1 2Ó 

Dante  da  Maiano. 

Sonnet  (to   Dante  Alighieri).      He  interprets    Dante 
Alighieri' s  Dream,  related  in  the  first  Sonnet  of  the  Vita 

Nuova 127 

Sonnet.     He  craves  interpreting  of  a  Dream  of  his  .     .     .     .  128 
Sonnet  (Guido  Orlandi  to  Dante  da  Maiaxo).    He 
interprets  the  Dream  related  in  the  foregoing  Sonnet  •'ly 

Dante  da  Maiano) 1 28 

Sonnet.     To  his  Lady  Nijm,  of  Sicily 129 

Sonnet.    He  thanks  his  Lady  for  the  Joy  he  has  hadfro?n  her  1 29 

Cecco  Angiolieri,  da  Siena. 

Sonnet  (to  Dante  Alighieri).      On  the  last  Sonjiet  of 

the  Vita  Nuova 130 

Sonnet.     He  zvill  not  be  too  deeply  in  Love 131 

Sonnet.     Of  Love  in  Men  and  Devils 131 

Sonnet.     Of  Love,  in  honor  of  his  Mistress  Becchina  .     .     .  132 

•'      Sonnet.     Of  Becchina,  the  Shoemaker  s  Daughter   ....  132 

Sonnet.     To  Messer  Angiolieri,  his  Father 133 

Sonnet.     Of  the  20th  June,  i2c,i 133 

Sonnet.     Ln  absence  from  Becchina 134 

Sonnet.     Of  Becchina  in  a  Rage 134 

Sonnet.     He   rails  against  Dante,  who  had  censttred  his 

homage  to  Becchina 1 35 

Sonnet.     Of  his  four  Tormentors 135 

Sonnet.     Cone emiitg  his  Father 136 

Sonnet.     Of  all  he  would  do 136 

Sonnet.     LLc  is  past  all  Help 137 


xiv  Contents. 


VKGB 

Sonnet.     Of  why  he  is  unhanged 137 

Sonnet.     Of  why  he  would  be  a  Scullion 138 

Prolonged  Sonnet.     When  his  Clothes  were  gone      .     .     .  138 

Sonnet.     He  aigues  his  case  with  Death 139 

Sonnet.     Of  Becchina,  and  of  her  Husband 139 

Sonnet.      To  Becchino' s  rich  Husband 140 

Sonnet.     On  the  Death  of  his  Father 140 

Sonnet.     He  would  slay  all  who  hate  their  Fathers       .     .     .  141 
Sonnet  (TO  Dante  Alighieri).     He  lurites  to  Dante,  then 

in  exile  at  Verona,  defying  him  as  no  better  than  himself .  141 

Guido  Orlandi. 

Sonnet.    Against  the  "'White'''' GhibelUnes 142 

Lapo  Gianni. 

Madrigal.     What  Lffve  shall  provide  for  him 143 

Ballata.     A  Message  in  charge  for  his  Lady  Lagia     ...     144 

Ding  Frescobaldi. 

Sonnet.     Of  what  his  Lady  is 146 

Sonnet.     Of  the  Star  of  his  Love 146 

Giotto  di  Bondone. 

Canzone.     Of  the  Doctrine  of  Voluntary  Poverty     ....     147 

Simone  dall'  Antella. 

Prolonged  Sonnet.     Ln   the  last  Days  of  the  Emperor 

Henry  VII. 149 

Giovanni  Quirino. 

Sonnet  (to  Dante  Alighieri).  He  commends  the  work 
of  Dante^s  life,  theJt  dratvitig  to  its  close  ;  and  deplores  his 
own  deficiencies 150 

Sonnet  (Dante  Alighieri  to  Giovanni  Quirino).  He 
ansnvers  the  foregoing  Sonnet  {by  Quirino)  :  saying  what 
he  feels  at  the  approach  of  Death 151 


APPENDIX   TO   PART   I. 


I.   Forese  Donati. 

Sonnet  (Dante  to  Forese).     He  taunts  Forese,  by  the 

nickname  of  Bieci 1 54 

Sonnet  (Forese  to  Dante).  He  taunts  Dante  ironi- 
cally for  not  avetiging  Geri  AUsrhieri 155 

Sonnet  (Dante  to  Forese).    He  tatmts  him  concerning 

his  Wife •     ^55 

Sonnet  (Forese  to  Dante).    He  taunts  him  concerning 

the  unavenged  Spirit  of  Ceri  Alighieri 156 

II.   Cecco  d'  Ascoli iS9 


Contents. 


PAGE 

III.  Giovanni  Boccaccio. 

Sonnet.     To  one  who  had  censured  his  public  Exposition 

of  Dante l6o 

Sonnet.     Inscription  for  a  Portrait  of  Dante      .     .     .     .  i6o 

Sonnet.      To  Dante  in  Paradise,  after  Fiamitietta''s  death  i6i 

Sonnet.     Of  Fiammetta  singins[ i6i 

Sonnet.     Of  his  last  sight  of  Fia7nmetta 162 

Sonnet.     Of  three  Girls  and  of  their  Talk 162 


PART   II. 

POETS   CHIEFLY   BEFORE   DANTE. 

TABLE   OF   POETS   IN   PART   II 163 

./CiULLo  d'  Alcamo. 

Dialogue.     Lover  and  Lady 172 

FOLCACHIERO    DE'    FoLCACHIERI. 

Canzone.     He  speaks  of  his  Condition  through  Love     .     .     .     180 
Lodovico  della  Vernaccia. 

Sonnet,     //e  exhorts  the  State  to  vigilance 182 

Saint  Francis  of  Assisi. 

Cantica.     Our  Lord  Christ:  of  Order 183 

v/^Frederick  IL    Emperor. 

Canzone.     Of  his  Lady  iti  Bondage 184 

Enzo,  King  of  Sardinia. 

Sonnet.     On  the  fitness  of  Seasons 186 

Guido  Guinicelli. 

Sonnet.     Concerning  Lticy 187 

>/Canzone.     Of  the  gentle  Heart 187 

Sonnet.     He  will  praise  his  Lady 189 

Canzone.     He  perceives  his  Rashness  in  Love,  but  has  no 

choice 189 

Sonnet.     Of  Moderation  and  Tolerance 190 

Sonnet.     Of  Human  Presiutiption 191 

GuERZO  di  Montecanti. 

Sonnet.    He  is  07it  of  heart  ivith  his  Time 192 

Inghilfredi,  Siciliano. 

Canzone.     He  rebukes  the  Evil  of  that  Time 193 

Rinaldo  d'  Aquino. 

/       Canzone.     He  is  resolved  to  be  joyful  in  Love 195 

/        Canzone.     A  Lady,  in  Spring,  repents  of  her  Coldness     .     .     197 
Jacopo  da  Lentino. 

Sonnet.     Of  his  Lady  in  Heaven 198 

Canzonetta.     Of  his  Lady,  and  of  her  Portrait     ....     199 


xvi  e 0  lit  e  ì  its. 


PAGE 

Sonnet.     N'o  Jnvel  is  worth  his  Lady 201 

Canzonetta    He  ^vill  neither  boast  tior  latnetit  to  his  Lady  .  201 

CANZONETrA,     0/  his  Lady,  and  of  his  making  her  Likeness  203 

Sonnet.     Of  his  Lady's  Face 204 

Canzone.     At  the  end  of  his  Hope 205 

Mazzeo  di  Ricco,  da  Messina. 

Canzone.     He  solicits  his  Lady's  Pity 207 

Canzone.     After  Six  Years'  Service  he  renounces  his  Lady  .  208 

Sonnet.     Of  Self-seeing 209 

Pannuccio  dal  Bagno,  Pisano. 

Canzone.     Of  his  Change  through  Lave 211 

.y^  Giacomino  Pugliesi. 

Canzonetta.     Of  his  Lady  in  Absence 213 

Canzonetta.     To  his  Lady,  in  Spring 214 

Canzone.     Of  kis  dead  Lady 215 

Fra  Guittone  d'  Arezzo. 

Sonnet.     To  the  Blessed  VÌ7gin  Mary 217 

Bartolomeo  di  Sant'  Angelo. 

Sonnet.     He  Jests  concerning  his  Poverty 218 

Saladino  da  Pavia. 

Dialogue.     Lover  arid  Lady 219 

Bon  aggiunta  Urbiciani,  da  Lucca. 

Canzone.     Of  the  true  end  of  Love  ;  with  a  Prayer  to  his 

Lady 221 

Canzonetta.     How  he  dreams  of  his  Ljidy 222 

Sonnet.     Of  Wisdom  and  Foresight 224 

Sonnet.     Of  Contittence  in  Speech 224 

Meg  Abbracciavacca,  da  Pistoia. 

Canzone.     He  will  be  silent  and  watchful  in  his  Love  .     .     .     225 
Ballata.     His  Life  is  by  Contraries 227 

Ubaldo  di  Marco. 

Sonnet.     Of  a  Lady' s  Love  for  hivi 228 

Simbuono  Giudice. 

Canzone.    He  fijids  that  Love  has  beguiled  him,  but  will  trust 

in  his  Lady 229 

Masolino  da  Todi. 

Sonnet.     Of  Work  and  Wealth 231 

Onesto  di  Boncima,  Bolognese. 

Sonnet.     Of  the  Last  Jjcdgment 232 

Sonnet.     He  ivishes  that  he  could  meet  his  Lady  alone  .     .     .     233 

Terino  da  Castel  Fiorentino. 

Sonnet.     To  Onesto  di  Bonci?na,  in  Answer  to  the  foregoing      234 

Maestro  Migliore,  da  Fiorenza. 

Sonnet.     He  declares  all  Love  to  be  Grief 235 

Dello  da  Signa. 

Ballata.     His  Creed  of  Ldeal  Love 236 


Coìitents.  xvii 


PAGE 

Folgore  da  San  Geminiano. 

Sonnet.     To  the  Gnelf  Faction 237 

Sonnet.     To  the  Same 238 

Sonnet.     Of  Virtue 238 

Twelve  Sonnets.     Of  the  Months 239 

Seven  Sonnets.     Of  the  Week 245 

Guido  delle  Colonne. 

Canzone.     To  Love  and  to  his  Lady 249 

Pier  Moronelli,  di  Fiorenza. 

Canzonetta.     A  bitter  Song  to  his  Lady 251 

CiUNCio  Fiorentino 

Canzone.     Of  his  Love  ;   with   the  Figures  of  a   Stag,  of 

Water,  and  of  an  Eagle 253 

Ruggieri  di  Amici,  Siciliano. 

Canzonetta.     For  a  Renewal  of  Favors        255 

Carnino  Ghiberti,  da  Fiorenza. 

Canzone.     Being  absent  from  his  Lady,  he  fears  Death     .     .     257 

Prinzivalle  Doria. 

Canzone.     Of  his  Love,  with  the  Figure  of  a  sudden  Storm  .     259 

Rustico  di  Filippo. 

Sonnet.     Of  the  making  of  Master  Messerin 261 

Sonnet.     Of  the  Safety  of  Messer  Fazio 261 

Sonnet.     Of  Messer  Ugolino 262 

PUCCIARELLO   DI    FIORENZA. 

Sonnet.     Of  Expediency 263 

Albertuccio  della  Viola. 

Canzone.     Of  his  Lady  dancing 264 

Tommaso  Buzzuola,  da  Faenza. 

Sonnet.    Lie  is  in  awe  of  his  Lady 265 

NOFFO    BONAGUIDA. 

Sonnet.     He  is  e^ijoined  to  pure  Love 266 

Lippo  Paschi  de'  Bardi. 

Sonnet.     He  solicits  a  Lady's  Favors 267 

Ser  Pace,  Notaio  da  Fiorenza. 

Sonnet.     A  Return  to  Love 268 

Niccolò  degli  Albizzi. 

Prolonged   Sonnet.     When   the    Troops  were  retiirfting 

from  Milan 269 

Francesco  da  Barberino. 

Blank  Verse.     A  Virgin  declares  her  Beauties      ....     270 

Sentenze.     Of  Sloth  agaiiist  Sin 271 

Sentenze.     Of  Sins  in  Speech 272 

Sentenze.     Of  Importunities  and  Troublesofne  Persons    .     .     273 
Sentenze.     Of  Caution 275 

Fazio  degli  Uberti. 

Canzone.     His  Portrait  of  his  Lady,  Angiola  of  Verona  .     .     276 
Extract  from  the  "Dittamondo."     Of  Ettgland,  and 

of  its  Marvels 278 


xviii  Contents. 


PAGE 

Extract  from  the  "Dittamondo."     Of  the  Dukes  of 
Normandy,  and  thence  of  the  Kincrs  of  England,  from 

William  I.  to  Edward  III.      .     .    ' 281 

Franco  Sacchetti. 

Ballata.     His  Talk  with  certain  Peasant-girls 284 

Catch.     On  a  Fine  Day 285 

Catch.     On  a  Wet  Day 286 

Anonymous  Poems. 

Sonnet.     A  Lady  laments  for  her  lost  Lover,  by  similitude  of 

a  Falcon 288 

Ballata.     One  speaks  of  the  Beginning  of  his  Love     .     .     .  288 

Ballata.     One  speaks  of  his  false  Lady 289 

Ballata.     One  speaks  of  his  Feigned  and  Real  Love    .     .     .  289 

Ballata.     Of  True  and  False  Singing 290 


PART    I. 


DANTE  AND   HIS  CIRCLE. 


I.  DANTE   ALIGHIERI. 

II.  GUIDO   CAVALCANTI. 

IIL  CINO   DA   PISTOIA. 

IV.  DANTE   DA   MAIANO. 

V.  CECCO   ANGIOLIERI. 

VL  GUIDO   ORLANDI. 

VII.  BERNARDO   DA   BOLOGNA. 

VIIL  GIANNI   ALFANI. 

IX.  DINO   COMPAGNI. 

X.  LAPO   GIANNI. 

XL  DINO   FRESCOBALDI. 

XIL  GIOTTO   DI   BONDONE. 

XIII.  SIMONE   DALL'   ANTELLA. 

XIV.  GIOVANNI   QUIRINO. 


DANTE   AND    HIS   CIRCLE. 


INTRODUCTION   TO   PART   I. 

IN  the  first  division  of  this  volume  are  included  all  the 
poems  I  could  find  which  seemed  to  have  value  as 
being  personal  to  the  circle  of  Dante's  friends,  and  as 
illustrating  their  intercourse  with  each  other.  Those  who 
know  the  Italian  collections  from  which  I  have  drawn  these 
pieces  (many  of  them  most  obscure)  will  perceive  how  much 
which  is  in  fact  elucidation  is  here  attempted  to  be  embodied 
in  themselves,  as  to  their  rendering,  arrangement,  and  head- 
ing :  since  the  Italian  editors  have  never  yet  paid  any  of 
them,  except  of  course  those  by  Dante,  any  such  attention  ;  but 
have  printed  and  reprinted  them  in  a  jumbled  and  dishearten- 
ing form,  by  which  they  can  serve  little  purpose  except  as 
testi  di  lingua  —  dead  stock  by  whose  help  the  makers  of 
dictionaries  may  smother  the  language  with  decayed  words. 
Appealing  now  I  believe  for  the  first  time  in  print,  though  in 
a  new  idiom,  from  their  once  living  writers  to  such  living 
readers  as  they  may  find,  they  require  some  preliminary 
notice. 

The  Vita  Nuova  (the  Autobiography  or  Autopsychology 
of  Dante's  youth  till  about  his  twenty-seventh  year)  is  already 
well  known  to  many  in  the  original,  or  by  means  of  essays  and 
of  English  versions  partial  or  entire.  It  is,  therefore,  and  on 
all  accounts,  unnecessary  to  say  much  more  of  the  work  here 
than  it  says  for  itself.  Wedded  to  its  exquisite  and  intimate 
beauties  are  personal  peculiarities  which  excite  wonder  and 
conjecture,  best  replied  to  in  the  words  which  Beatrice  her- 
self is  made  to  utter  in  the  Commedia  :  "  Questi  f^^  tal  nella 


Dante  and  His  Circle. 


sua  vita  nuova."  ^  Thus  then  young  Dante  was.  All  that 
seemed  possible  to  be  done  here  for  the  work  was  to  trans- 
late it  in  as  free  and  clear  a  form  as  was  consistent  with 
fidelity  to  its  meaning  ;  to  ease  it,  as  far  as  possible,  from 
notes  and  encumbrances  ;  and  to  accompany  it  for  the  first 
time  with  those  poems  from  Dante's  own  lyrical  series  which 
have  reference  to  its  events,  as  well  as  with  such  native  com- 
mentary (so  to  speak)  as  might  be  afforded  by  the  writings 
of  those  with  whom  its  author  was  at  that  time  in  familiar 
intercourse.  Not  chiefly  to  Dante,  then,  of  whom  so  much 
is  known  to  all  or  may  readily  be  found  written,  but  to  the 
various  other  members  of  his  circle,  these  few  pages  should 
be  devoted. 

It  may  be  noted  here,  however,  how  necessary  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  Vita  Nuova  is  to  the  full  comprehension  of  the 
part  borne  by  Beatrice  in  the  Commedia.  Moreover,  it  is 
only  from  the  perusal  of  its  earliest  and  then  undivulged 
self-communings  that  we  can  divine  the  whole  bitterness  of 
wrong  to  such  a  soul  as  Dante's,  its  poignant  sense  of  aban- 
donment, or  its  deep  and  jealous  refuge  in  memory.  Above 
all,  it  is  here  that  we  find  the  first  manifestations  of  that 
wisdom  of  obedience,  that  natural  breath  of  duty,  which 
afterwards,  in  the  Com7?iedia,  lifted  up  a  mighty  voice  for 
warning  and  testimony.  Throughout  the  Vita  Nuova  there 
is  a  strain  like  the  first  falling  m'lrmuT  which  reaches  the  ear 
in  some  remote  meadow,  and  prepares  us  to  look  upon  the 
sea. 

Boccaccio,  in  his  Life  of  Dante,  tells  us  that  the  great 
poet,  in  later  life,  was  ashamed  of  this  work  of  his  youth. 
Such  a  statement  hardly  seems  reconcilable  with  the  allusions 
to  it  made  or  implied  in  the  Commedia  ;  but  it  is  true  that 
the  Vita  Nuova  is  a  book  which  only  youth  could  have  pro- 
duced, and  which  must  chiefly  remain  sacred  to  the  young  ; 
to  each  of  whom  the  figure  of  Beatrice,  less  lifelike  than  love- 
like, will  seem  the  friend  of  his  own  heart.  Nor  is  this,  per- 
haps, its  least  praise.  To  tax  its  author  with  effeminacy  on 
account  of  the  extreme  sensitiveness  evinced  by  this  narra- 
tive of  his  love,  would  be  manifestly  unjust,  when  we  find 
that,  though  love  alone  is  the  theme  of  the  Vita  Nuova,  war 
already  ranked  among  its  author's  experiences  at  the  period 
to  which  it  relates.     In  the  year  1289,  the  one  preceding  the 


1  Purgatorio,  C.  jcxx. 


Introduction  to  Part  I. 


death  of  Beatrice,  Dante  served  with  the  foremost  cavalry  in 
the  great  battle  of  Campaldino,  on  the  eleventh  of  June, 
when  the  Florentines  defeated  the  people  of  Arezzo.  In  the 
autumn  of  the  next  year,  1290,  when  for  him,  by  the  death 
of  Beatrice,  the  city  as  he  says  "sat  solitary,"  such  refuge  as 
he  might  find  from  his  grief  was  sought  in  action  and  danger  : 
for  we  learn  from  the  Commedia  (Hell,  C.  xxi.)  that  he 
served  in  the  war  then  waged  by  Florence  upon  Pisa,  and 
was  present  at  the  surrender  of  Caprona.  He  says,  using 
the  reminiscence  to  give  life  to  a  description,  in  his  great 
way  :  — 

"  l 've  seen  the  troops  out  of  Caprona  go 

On  terms,  affrighted  thus,  when  on  the  spot 
They  found  themselves  with  foemen  compass'd  so." 

(  C  AY  LE Y  's  Tratistation .  ) 

A  word  should  be  said  here  of  the  title  of  Dante's  auto- 
biography. The  adjective  Nuovo,  nuova,  or  Novello,  Jiovella^ 
literally  New,  is  often  used  by  Dante  and  other  early  writers 
in  the  sense  oi young.  This  has  induced  some  editors  of  the 
Vita  Nuova  to  explain  the  title  as  meaning  Early  Life.  I 
should  be  glad  on  some  accounts  to  adopt  this  supposition, 
as  everything  is  a  gain  which  increases  clearness  to  the  mod- 
ern reader  ;  but  on  consideration  I  think  the  more  mystical 
interpretation  of  the  words,  as  Ne7v  Life  (in  reference  to  that 
revulsion  of  his  being  which  Dante  so  minutely  describes 
as  having  occurred  simultaneously  with  his  first  sight  of 
Beatrice),  appears  the  primary  one,  and  therefore  the  most 
necessary  to  be  given  in  a  translation.  The  probability  may 
be  that  both  were  meant,  but  this  1  cannot  convey.^ 

1  I  must  hazard  here  (to  reheve  the  first  page  of  my  translation  from  a  long 
note)  a  suggestion  as  to  the  meaning  of  the  most  puzzling  passage  in  the  whole 
Vita  Nziova, — that  sentence  just  at  the  outset  which  says,  "La  gloriosa 
donna  della  mia  mente,  la  quale  fìi  chiamata  da  molti  Beatrice,  i  quali  non 
sapeano  che  si  chiamare."  On  this  passage  all  the  commentators  seem  help- 
less, turning  it  about  and  sometimes  adopting  alterations  not  to  be  found  in 
any  ancient  manuscript  of  the  work.  The  words  mean  literally,  "  The  glorious 
lady  of  my  mind  who  was  called  Beatrice  by  many  wlio  knew  not  how  she  was 
called."  This  presents  the  obvious  difficulty  that  the  lady's  name  really  was 
Beatrice,  and  that  Dante  throughout  uses  that  name  himself.  In  the  text  of 
my  version  I  have  adopted,  as  a  rendering,  the  one  of  the  various  compromises 
which  seemed  to  give  the  most  beauty  to  the  meaning.  But  it  occurs  to  me 
that  a  less  irrational  escape  out  of  the  difficulty  than  any  I  have  seen  suggested 
may  possibly  be  found  by  linking  this  passage  with  tlie  close  of  the  sonnet  at 
page  56  of  the  Vita  Nitova,  beginning,  "  I  felt  a  spirit  of  Love  begin  to  stir," 
in  the  last  line  of  which  sonnet  Love  is  made  to  assert  that  the  name  of  Bea- 


Dante  and  His  Circle. 


Among  the  poets  of  Dante's  circle,  the  first  in  order,  the 
first  in  power,  and  the  one  whom  Dante  has  styled  his 
"first  friend,"  is  Guido  Cavalcanti,  born  about  1250,  and 
thus  Dante's  senior  by  some  fifteen  years.  It  is  therefore 
probable  that  there  is  some  inaccuracy  about  the  statement, 
often  repeated,  that  he  was  Dante's  fellow-pupil  under  Bru- 
netto Latini  ;  though  it  seems  certain  that  they  both  studied, 
probably  Guido  before  Dante,  with  the  same  teacher.  The 
Cavalcanti  family  was  among  the  most  ancient  in  Florence  ; 
and  its  importance  may  be  judged  by  the  fact  that  in  1280, 
on  the  occasion  of  one  of  the  various  missions  sent  from 
Rome  with  the  view  of  pacifying  the  Florentine  factions, 
the  name  of  "  Guido  the  son  of  Messer  Cavalcante  de' 
Cavalcanti  "  appears  as  one  of  the  sureties  offered  by  the 
city  for  the  quarter  of  San  Piero  Scheraggio.  His  father 
must  have  been  notoriously  a  sceptic  in  matters  of  religion, 
since  we  find  him  placed  by  Dante  in  the  sixth  circle  of 
Hell,  in  one  of  the  fiery  tombs  of  the  unbelievers.  That 
Guido  shared  this  heresy  was  the  popular  belief,  as  is  pjain 
from  an  anecdote  in  Boccaccio  which  I  shall  give  ;  and 
some  corroboration  of  such  reports,  at  any  rate  as  applied 
to  Guido's  youth,  seems  capable  of  being  gathered  from  an 
extremely  obscure  poem,  which  I  have  translated  on  that 
account  (at  page  113)  as  clearly  as  I  found  possible.  It 
must  be  admitted,  however,  that  there  is  to  the  full  as  much 
devotional  as  sceptical  tendency  implied  here  and  there  in 
his  writings  ;  while  the  presence  of  either  is  very  rare.  We 
may  also  set  against  such  a  charge  the  fact  that  Dino  Com- 
pagni refers,  as  will   be  seen,  to   his  having  undertaken  a 

trice  is  Love.  Dante  appears  to  have  dwelt  on  this  fancy  with  some  pleasure, 
from  what  is  said  in  an  earlier  sonnet  (page  31)  about  "Love  in  his  proper 
form  •'  (by  which  Beatrice  seems  to  be  meant)  bending  over  a  dead  lady.  And 
it  is  in  connection  with  the  sonnet  where  the  name  of  Beatrice  is  said  to  be  Love, 
that  Dante,  as  if  to  show  us  that  the  Love  he  speaks  of  is  only  his  own  emo- 
tion, enters  into  an  argument  as  to  Love  being  merely  an  accident  in  substance, 
—  in  other  words,  "Amore  e  il  cor  gentil  son  una  cosa."  This  conjecture 
may  be  pronounced  extravagant;  but  the  Vita  Nuova  ^  when  examined,  proves 
so  full  of  intricate  and' fantastic  analogies,  even  in  the  mere  arrangement  of  its 
parts  (much  more  than  appears  on  any  but  the  closest  scrutiny),  that  it  seems 
admissible  to  suggest  even  a  whimsical  solution  of  a  difficulty  which  remains 
unconquered.  Or  to  have  recourse  to  the  much  more  welcome  means  of  solu- 
tion afforded  by  simple  inherent  beauty  :  may  not  the  meaning  be  merely  that 
any  person  looking  on  so  noble  and  lovely  a  creation,  without  knowledge  of 
her  name,  must  have  spontaneously  called  her  Beatrice,  —  i.  <?.,  the  giver  of 
blessing  ?  This  would  be  analogous  by  antithesis  to  tlie  translation  I  have 
adopted  in  my  text. 


Introduction  to  Part  I. 


religious  pilgrimage.  But  indeed  he  seems  to  have  been  in 
all  things  of  that  fitful  and  vehement  nature  which  would 
impress  others  always  strongly,  but  often  in  opposite  ways. 
Self-reliant  pride  gave  its  color  to  all  his  moods  ;  making 
his  exploits  as  a  soldier  frequently  abortive  through  the 
headstrong  ardor  of  partisanship,  and  causing  the  perversity 
of  a  logician  to  prevail  in  much  of  his  amorous  poetry. 
The  writings  of  his  contemporaries,  as  well  as  his  own,  tend 
to  show  him  rash  in  war,  fickle  in  love,  and  presumptuous 
in  belief;  but  also,  by  the  same  concurrent  testimony,  he 
was  distinguished  by  great  personal  beauty,  high  accom- 
plishments of  all  kinds,  and  daring  nobility  of  soul.  Not 
unworthy,  for  all  the  weakness  of  his  strength,  to  have  been  \ 
the  object  of  Dante's  early  emulation,  the  first  friend  of  his 
youth,  and  his  precursor  and  fellow-laborer  in  the  creation  of 
Italian  Poetry. 

In  the  year  1267,  when  Guido  cannot  have  been  much 
more  than  seventeen  years  of  age,  a  last  attempt  was  made 
in  Florence  to  reconcile  the  Guelfs  and  Ghibellines.  With 
this  view  several  alliances  were  formed  between  the  leading 
families  of  the  two  factions  ;  and  among  others,  the  Guelf 
Cavalcante  de'  Cavalcanti  wedded  his  son  Guido  to  a 
daughter  of  the  Ghibelline  Farinata  degli  Uberti.  The 
peace  was  of  short  duration  ;  the  utter  expulsion  of  the 
Ghibellines  (through  French  intervention  solicited  by  the 
Guelfs)  following  almost  immediately.  In  the  subdivision, 
which  afterwards  took  place,  of  the  victorious  Guelfs  into 
so-called  "  Blacks  "  and  "  Whites,"  Guido  embraced  the 
White  party,  which  tended  strongly  to  Ghibellinism,  and 
whose  chief  was  Vieri  de'  Cerchi,  while  Corso  Donati  headed 
the  opposite  faction.  W^hether  his  wife  was  still  living  at 
the  time  when  the  events  of  the  Vita  Nuova  occurred  is 
probably  not  ascertainable  ;  but  about  that  time  Dante  tells 
us  that  Guido  was  enamoured  of  a  lady  named  Giovanna  or 
Joan,  and  whose  Christian  name  is  absolutely  all  that  we 
know  of  her.  However,  on  the  occasion  of  his  pilgrimage 
to  Thoulouse,  recorded  by  Dino  Compagni,  he  seems  to 
have  conceived  a  fresh  passion  for  a  lady  of  that  city  named 
Mandetta,  who  first  attracted  him  by  a  striking  resemblance 
to  his  Florentine  mistress.  Thoulouse  had  become  a  place 
of  pilgrimage'  from  its  laying  claim  to  the  possession  of  the 
body,  or  part  of  the  body,  of  St.  James  the  Greater  ;  though 


Dante  and  His  Circle. 


the  same  supposed  distinction  had  already  made  the  shrine 
of  Compostella  in  Galicia  one  of  the  most  famous  throughout 
all  Christendom.  That  this  devout  journey  of  Guido's  had 
other  results  besides  a  new  love  will  be  seen  by  the  passage 
from  Compagni's  Chronicle.     He  says  :  — 

"  A  young  and  noble  knight  named  Guido,  son  of  Messer  Caval- 
cante Cavalcanti, — full  of  courage  and  courtes}^  but  disdainful, 
solitary,  and  devoted  to  study,  —  was  a  foe  to  Messer  Corso  (Donati), 
and  had  many  times  cast  about  to  do  him  hurt.  Messer  Corso 
feared  him  exceedingly,  as  knowing  him  to  be  of  a  great  spirit,  and 
sought  to  assassinate  him  on  a  pilgrimage  which  Guido  made  to  the 
shrine  of  St,  James  ;  but  he  might  not  compass  it.  Wherefore, 
having  returned  to  Florence  and  being  made  aware  of  this.  Guido 
incited  many  youths  against  Messer  Corso,  and  these  promised  to 
stand  by  him.  Who  being  one  day  on  horseback  with  certain  of  the 
house  of  the  Cerchi,  and  having  a  javelin  in  his  hand,  spurred  his 
horse  against  Messer  Corso,  thinking  to  be  followed  by  the  Cerchi 
that  so  their  companies  might  engage  each  other;  and  he  running  in 
on  his  horse  cast  the  javelin,  which  missed  its  aim.  And  with  Messer 
Corso  were  Simon,  his  son,  a  strong  and  daring  youth,  and  Cecchino 
de'  Bardi,  who  with  many  others  pursued  Guido  with  drawn  swords  ; 
but  not  overtaking  him  they  threw  stones  after  him,  and  also  others 
were  thrown  at  him  from  the  windows,  whereby  he  was  wounded  in 
the  hand.  And  by  this  matter  hate  was  increased.  And  Messer 
Corso  spoke  great  scorn  of  Messer  Vieri,  calling  him  the  Ass  of  the 
Gate  ;  because,  albeit  a  very  handsome  man,  he  was  but  of  blunt  wit 
and  no  great  speaker.  And  therefore  Messer  Corso  would  say  often, 
*  To-day  the  Ass  of  the  Gate  has  brayed,'  and  so  greatly  disparage 
him;  and  Guido  he  called  Cavicchia)-  And  thus  it  was  spread  abroad 
of  X\i&  jongleurs  ;  and  especially  one  named  Scampolino  reported 
worse  things  than  were  said,  that  so  the  Cerchi  might  be  provoked 
to  engage  the  Donati." 

The  praise  which  Compagni,  his  contemporary,  awards 
to  Guido  at  the  commencement  of  the  foregoing  extract, 
receives  additional  value  when  viewed  in  connection  with 
the  sonnet  addressed  to  him  by  the  same  writer  (see  page 
104),  where  we  find  that  he  could  tell  him  of  his  faults.  • 

1  A  nickname  chiefly  chosen,  no  doubt,  for  its  resemblance  to  Cavalcanti. 
The  word  cavicchia,  cavicchio,  or  caviglia,  means  a  wooden  peg  or  pin.  A 
passage  in  Boccaccio  says,  "  He  had  tied  his  ass  to  a  strong  wooden  pin  " 
{caviglia).  Thus  Guido,  from  his  mental  superiority,  might  be  said  to  be 
the  Pin  to  which  the  Ass,  Messer  Vieri,  was  tethered  at  the  Gate  (that  is, 
the  gate  of  San  Pietro,  near  which  he  lived).  However,  it  seems  quite  as 
likely  that  the  nickname  was  founded  on  a  popular  phrase  by  which  one  who 
fails  in  any  undertaking  is  said  "  to  run  his  rear  on  a  peg  "  {dare  del  culo  in 
un  cavicchio).  The  haughty  Corso  Donati  himself  went  by  the  name  of 
Malefammi  or  "  Do-me-harm."  For  an  account  of  Iiis  death  in  1307,  which 
proved  in  keeping  with  his  turbulent  life,  see  Dino  Compagni's  Chronicle,  or 
the  Pecorone  of  Giovanni  Fiorentino  (Gior.  xxiv.  Nov.  2). 


hitrodtiction  to  Part  I. 


Such  scenes  as  the  one  related  above  had  become  com- 
mon things  in  Florence,  which  kept  on  its  course  from  bad 
to  worse  till  Pope  Boniface  VIII.  resolved  on  sending  a 
legate  to  propose  certain  amendments  in  its  scheme  of 
government  by  Priori,  or  representatives  of  the  various  arts 
and  companies.  These  proposals,  however,  were  so  ill 
received,  that  the  legate,  who  arrived  in  Florence  in  the 
month  of  June,  1300,  departed  shortly  afterwards  greatly 
incensed,  leaving  the  city  under  a  papal  interdict.  In  the 
ill-considered  tumults  which  ensued  we  again  hear  of 
Guido  Cavalcanti. 

"  It  happened  [says  Giovanni  Villani  in  his  History  of  Florence]  that 
in  the  month  of  December  [1300]  Messer  Corso  Donati  with  his 
followers,  and  also  those  of  the  house  of  the  Cerchi  and  their  fol- 
lowers, going  armed  to  the  funeral  of  a  ladv  of  the  Frescobaldi  family, 
this  party  defying  that  by  their  looks  would  have  assailed  the  one  the 
other;  whereby  all  those  who  were  at  the  funeral  having  risen  up 
tumultuously  and  fled  each  to  his  house,  the  whole  city  got  under 
arms,  both  factions  assembling  in  great  numbers,  at  their  respective 
houses.  Messer  Gentile  de'  Cerchi,  Guido  Cavalcanti,  Baldinuccio 
and  Corso  Adimari,  Baschiero  della  Tosa  and  Naldo  Gherardini, 
with  their  comrades  and  adherents  on  horse  and  on  foot,  hastened  to 
St.  Peter's  Gate  to  the  house  of  the  Donati.  Not  finding  them  there 
they  went  on  to  San  Pier  Maggiore,  where  Messer  Corso  was  with 
his  friends  and  followers  ;  by  whom  they  were  encountered  and  put 
to  flight,  with  many  wounds  and  with  much  shame  to  the  party  of  the 
Cerchi  and  to  their  adherents." 

By  this  time  we  may  conjecture  as  probable  that  Dante, 
in  the  arduous  position  which  he  then  filled  as  chief  of  the 
nine  Priori  on  whom  the  Government  of  Florence  devolved, 
had  resigned  for  far  other  cares  the  sweet  intercourse  of 
thought  and  poetry  which  he  once  held  with  that  first  friend 
of  his  who  had  now  become  so  factious  a  citizen.  Yet  it  is 
impossible  to  say  how  much  of  the  old  feeling  may  still  have 
survived  in  Dante's  mind  when,  at  the  close  of  the  year  1300 
or  beginning  of  130 1,  it  became  his  duty,  as  a  faithful  magis- 
trate of  the  republic,  to  add  his  voice  to  those  of  his  col- 
leagues in  pronouncing  a  sentence  of  banishment  on  the 
heads  of  both  the  Black  and  White  factions,  Guido  Caval- 
canti being  included  among  the  latter.  The  Florentines  had 
been  at  last  provoked  almost  to  demand  this  course  from 
their  governors,  by  the  discovery  of  a  conspiracy,  at  the 
head  of  which  was  Corso  Donati  (while  among  its  leading 
members  was  Simone  de'  Bardi,  once  the  husband  of  Bea- 
trice Portinari),  for  the  purpose    of  inducing  the  Pope  to 


8  Dante  and  His  Circle. 

subject  the  republic  to  a  French  peace-maker  {Paciere),  and 
so  shamefully  free  it  from  its  intestine  broils.  It  appears 
therefore  that  the  immediate  cause  of  the  exile  to  which  both 
sides  were  subjected  lay  entirely  with  the  Black  party,  the 
leaders  of  which  were  banished  to  the  Castello  della  Pieve 
in  the  wild  district  of  Massa  Traberia,  while  those  of  the 
White  faction  were  sent  to  Sarzana,  probably  (for  more 
than  one  place  bears  the  name)  in  the  Genovesato.  "  But 
this  party,"  writes  Villani,  ''  remained  a  less  time  in  exile, 
being  recalled  on  account  of  the  unhealthiness  of  the  place, 
which  made  that  Guido  Cavalcanti  returned  with  a  sickness, 
whereof  he  died.  And  of  him  was  a  great  loss  ;  seeing  that 
he  was  a  man,  as  in  philosophy,  so  in  many  things  deeply 
versed  ;  but  therewithal  too  fastidious  and  prone  to  take 
offence."^     His  death  apparently  took  place  in  1301. 

When  the  discords  of  Florence  ceased,  for  Guido,  in 
death,  Dante  also  had  seen  their  native  city  for  the  last 
time.  Before  Guido's  return  he  had  undertaken  that  em- 
bassy to  Rome  which  bore  him  the  bitter  fruit  of  unjust 
and  perpetual  exile  :  and  it  will  be  remembered  that  a  chief 
accusation  against  him  was  that  of  favor  shown  to  the 
White  party  on  the  banishment  of  the  factions. 

Besides  the  various  affectionate  allusions  to  Guido  in  the 
Vita  Nuova,  Dante  has  unmistakably  referred  to  him  in  at 
least  two  passages  of  the  Co7nmedia.  One  of  these  refer- 
ences is  to  be  found  in  those  famous  hues  of  the  Purgatoiy 
(C.  xi.  )  where  he  awards  him  the  palm  of  poetry  over 
Guido  Guinicelli  (though  also  of  the  latter  he  speaks  else- 
where with  high  praise),  and  implies  at  the  same  time,  it 
would  seem,  a  consciousness  of  his  own  supremacy  over 
both. 

"  Against  all  painters  Cimabue  thought 

To  keep  the  field.     Now  Giotto  has  the  cry, 
Z.     And  so  the  fame  o'  the  first  wanes  nigh  to  nought. 
Thus  one  from  other  Guido  took  the  high 
Glory  of  language  ;  and  perhaps  is  born 
He  who  from  both  shall  bear  it  by-and-by." 

The  other  mention  of  Guido  is  in  that  pathetic  passage  of 
the  Hell  (C.  x.)  where  Dante  meets  among  the  lost  souls 
Cavalcante  de'  Cavalcanti  :  — 

1  *'  Troppo  tenero  e  stizzoso."  I  judge  that  "  tenero"  here  is  rather  to  be 
interpreted  as  above  than  as  meaning  "impressionable"  in  love  affairs,  but 
cannot  be  certain. 


Introdtictio7i  to  Part  I. 


"  All  roundabout  he  looked,  as  though  he  had 
Desire  to  see  if  one  was  with  me  else. 
But  after  his  surmise  was  all  extinct. 
He  weeping  said  :  '  If  through  this  dungeon  blind 
Thou  goest  by  loftiness  of  intellect, — 
Where  is  my  son,  and  wherefore  not  with  thee  ?  ' 
And  I  to  him  :  'Of  myself  come  I  not  : 
He  who  there  waiteth  leads  me  thoro'  here, 
Whom  haply  in  disdain  your  Guido  had.'^ 

Raised  upright  of  a  sudden,  cried  he  :  '  How 
Didst  say  /:/e  had?     Is  he  not  living  still  ? 
Doth  not  the  sweet  light  strike  upon  his  eyes  ?  ' 
When  he  perceived  a  certain  hesitance 
Which  I  was  making  ere  I  should  reply, 
He  fell  supine,  and  forth  appeared  no  more." 

Dante,  however,  conveys  his  answer  afterwards  to  the  spirit 
of  Guido's  father,  through  another  of  the  condemned  also 
related  to  Guido,  Farinata  degli  Uberti,  with  whom  he  has 
been  speaking  meanwhile  :  — 

"  Then  I,  as  in  compunction  for  my  fault, 
Said  :  '  Now  then  shall  ye  tell  that  fallen  one 
His  son  is  still  united  with  the  quick. 
And,  if  I  erst  was  dumb  to  the  response, 
I  did  it,  make  him  know,  because  I  thought 
Yet  on  the  error  you  have  solved  for  me.'  " 

(W.  M.  RossETTi's  Translation.) 

The  date  which  Dante  fixes  for  his  vision  is  Good  Friday 
of  the  year  1300.  A  year  later,  his  answer  must  have  been 
different.  The  love  and  friendship  of  his  Vita  Nuova  had 
then  both  left  him.  For  ten  years  Beatrice  Portinari  had 
been  dead,  or  (as  Dante  says  in  the  Convito)  "  lived  in 
heaven  with  the  angels  and  on  earth  with  his  soul."  And 
now,  distant  and  probably  estranged  from  him,  Guido 
Cavalcanti  was  gone  too. 

Among  the  Tales  of  Franco  Sacchetti,  and  in  the  De- 
cameron of  Boccaccio,  are  two  anecdotes  relating  to  Guido. 
Sacchetti  tells  us  how,  one  day  that  he  was  intent  on  a 
game  at  chess,  Guido  (who  is  described  as  *'  one  who  per- 
haps had  not  his  equal  in  Florence")  was  disturbed  by  a 
child  playing  about,  and  threatened  punishment  if  the  noise 
continued.      The    child,    however,    managed   slyly   to    nail 

1  Virgil,  Dante's  guide  through  Hell.  Any  prejudice  which  Guido  enter- 
tained against  Virgil  depended,  no  doubt,  only  on  his  strong  desire  to  see  tlie 
Latin  language  give  place,  in  poetry  and  literature,  to  a  perfected  Italian 
idiom. 


IO  Dante  and  His  Circle. 

Guide's  coat  to  the  chair  on  which  he  sat,  and  so  had  the 
laugh  against  him  when  he  rose  soon  afterwards  to  fulfil  his 
threat.  This  may  serve  as  an  amusing  instance  of  Guido's 
hasty  temper,  but  is  rather  a  disappointment  after  its  mag- 
niloquent heading,  which  sets  forth  how  "  Guido  Cavalcanti, 
being  a  man  of  great  valor  and  a  philosopher,  is  defeated 
by  the  cunning  of  a  child." 

The  ninth  Tale  of  the  sixth  Day  of  the  Decameron  re- 
lates a  repartee  of  Guido's,  which  has  all  the  profound  plat- 
itude of  mediaeval  wit.  As  the  anecdote,  however,  is 
interesting  on  other  grounds,  I  translate  it  here. 

"  You  must  know  that  in  past  times  there  were  in  our  city  certain 
goodly  and  praiseworthy  customs  no-  one  of  which  is  now  left,  thanks 
to  avarice,  which  has  so  increased  with  riches  that  it  has  driven 
them  all  away.  Among  the  which  was  one  whereby  the  gentlemen 
of  the  outskirts  were  wont  to  assemble  together  in  divers  places 
throughout  Florence,  and  to  limit  their  fellowships  to  a  certain 
number,  having  heed  to  compose  them  of  such  as  could  fitly  dis- 
charge the  expense.  Of  whom  to-day  one,  and  to-morrow  another, 
and  so  all  in  turn,  laid  tables  each  on  his  own  day  for  all  the  fellow- 
ship. And  in  such  wise  often  they  did  honor  to  strangers  of  wor- 
ship and  also  to  citizens.  They  all  dressed  alike  at  least  once  in  the 
year,  and  the  most  notable  am.ong  them  rode  together  through  the 
city  ;  also  at  seasons  they  held  passages  of  arms,  and  specially  on 
the  principal  feast-days,  or  whenever  any  news  of  victory  or  other 
glad  tidings  had  reached  the  city.  And  among  these  fellowships  was 
one  headed  by  Messer  Betto  Brunelleschi,  into  the  which  Messer 
Betto  and  his  companions  had  often  intrigued  to  draw  Guido  di 
Messer  Cavalcante  de'  Cavalcanti  ;  and  this  not  without  cause,  see- 
ing that  not  only  he  was  one  of  the  best  logicians  that  the  world  held, 
and  a  surpassing  natural  philosopher  (for  the  which  things  the  fel- 
lowship cared  little),  but  also  he  exceeded  in  beauty  and  courtesy, 
and  was  of  great  gifts  as  a  speaker  ;  and  everything  that  it  pleased 
him  to  do,  and  that  best  became  a  gentleman,  he  did  better  than  any 
other  ;  and  was  exceeding  rich  and  knew  well  to  solicit  with  honor- 
able words  whomsoever  lie  deemed  worthy.  But  Messer  Betto  had 
never  been  able  to  succeed  in  enlisting  him  ;  and  he  and  his  compan- 
ions believed  that  this  was  through  Guido's  much  pondering  which 
divided  him  from  other  men.  Also  because  he  held  somewhat  of 
the  opinion  of  the  Epicureans,  it  was  said  among  the  vulgar  sort 
that  his  speculations  were  only  to  cast  about  whether  he  might 
find  that  there  was  no  God.  Now  on  a  certain  day  Guido  having 
left  Or  San  Michele,  and  held  along  the  Corso  degli  Adimari  as  far 
as  San  Giovanni  (which  oftentimes  was  his  walk)  ;  and  coming  to 
the  great  marble  tombs  which  now  are  in  the  Church  of  Santa 
Reparata,  but  were  then  with  many  others  in  San  Giovanni  ;  he 
being  between  the  porphyry  columns  which  are  there  among  those 
tombs,  and  the  gate  of  San  Giovanni  which  was  locked; — it  so 
chanced  that  Messer  Betto  and  his  fellowship  came  riding  up  by 
the  Piazza  di  Santa   Reparata,  and  seeing  Guido  among  the  sepul- 


Introduction  to  Part  I.  1 1 

chres,  said,  *  Let  us  go  and  engage  him.'  Whereupon,  spurring 
their  horses  in  the  fashion  of  a  pleasant  assault,  they  were  on -him 
almost  before  he  was  aware,  and  began  to  say  to  him,  *  Thou,  Guido, 
wilt  none  of  our  fellowship;  but  lo  now!  when  thou  shalt  have 
found  that  there  is  no  God,  what  wilt  thou  have  done  ?  '  To  whom 
Guido,  seeing  himself  hemmed  in  among  them,  readily  replied,  '  Gen- 
tlemen, ye  are  at  home  here,  and  may  say  what  ye  ]Dlease  to  me.' 
Wherewith,  setting  his  hand  on  one  of  those  high  tombs,  being  very 
light  of  his  person,  he  took  a  leap  and  was  over  on  the  other  side  ; 
and  so  having  freed  himself  from  them,  went  his  way.  And  they  all 
remained  bewildered,  looking  on  one  another  ;  and  began  to  say  that 
he  was  but  a  shallow-witted  fellow,  and  that  the  answer  he  had  made 
was  as  though  one  should  say  nothing  ;  seeing  that  where  they  were, 
they  had  not  more  to  do  than  other  citizens,  and  Guido  not  less  than 
they.  To  whom  Messer  Betto  turned  and  said  thus  :  '  Ye  yourselves 
are  shallow-witted  if  ye  have  not  understood  him.  He  has  civilly 
and  in  a  few  words  said  to  us  the  most  uncivil  thing  in  the  world; 
for  if  ye  look  well  to  it,  these  tombs  are  the  homes  of  the  dead,  see- 
ing that  in  them  the  dead  are  set  to  dwell  ;  and  here  he  says  that  we 
are  at  home  ;  giving  us  to  know  that  we  and  all  other  simple  unlet- 
tered men,  in  comparison  of  him  and  the  learned,  are  even  as  dead 
men;  wherefore,  being  here,  we  are  at  home.'  Thereupon  each  of 
them  understood  what  Guido  had  meant,  and  was  ashamed  ;  nor 
ever  again  did  they  set  themselves  to  engage  him.  Also  from 
that  day  forth  they  held  Messer  Betto  to  be  a  subtle  and  under- 
standing knight." 

In  the  above  story  mention  is  made  of  Guido  Cavalcanti's 
wealth,  and  there  seems  no  doubt  that  at  that  time  the  family- 
was  very  rich  and  powerful.  On  this  account  I  am  disposed 
to  question  whether  the  Canzone  at  page  in  (where  the 
author  speaks  of  his  poverty)  can  really  be  Guido's  work, 
though  I  have  included  it  as  being  interesting  if  rightly  at- 
tributed to  him  ;  and  it  is  possible  that,  when  exiled,  he  may 
have  suffered  for  the  time  in  purse  as  well  as  person.  About 
three  years  after  his  death,  on  the  loth  June,  1304,  the  Black 
party  plotted  together  and  set  fire  to  the  quarter  of  Florence 
chiefly  held  by  their  adversaries.  In  this  conflagration  the 
houses  and  possessions  of  the  Cavalcanti  were  almost  entirely 
destroyed  ;  the  flames  in  that  neighborhood  (as  Dino  Com- 
pagni records)  gaining  rapidly  in  consequence  of  the  great 
number  of  waxen  images  in  the  Virgin's  shrine  at  Or  San 
Michele  ;  one  of  which,  no  doubt,  was  the  very  image  re- 
sembling his  lady  to  which  Guido  refers  in  a  sonnet  (see 
page  93).  After  this,  their  enemies  succeeded  in  finally 
expelling    from    Florence    the    Cavalcanti    family,^    greatly 

1  With  them  were  expelled  the  still  more  powerful  Gherardini,  also  great 
sufferers  by  the  conflagration  ;  who,  on  being  driven  from  their  own  country. 


1 2  Dante  mid  His  Circle, 

impoverished  by  this  monstrous  fire,  in  which  nearly  two 
thousand  houses  were  consumed. 

Guido  appears,  by  various  evidence,  to  have  written,  be- 
sides his  poems,  a  treatise  on  Philosophy  and  another  on 
Oratory,  but  his  poems  only  have  survived  to  our  day.  As 
a  poet,  he  has  more  individual  life  of  his  own  than  belongs 
to  any  of  his  predecessors  ;  by  far  the  best  of  his  pieces  being 
those  which  relate  to  himself,  his  loves  and  hates.  The  best 
known,  however,  and  perhaps  the  one  for  whose  sake  the  rest 
have  been  preserved,  is  the  metaphysical  canzone  on  the 
Nature  of  Love,  beginning  "Donna  mi  priega,"  and  intended, 
it  is  said,  as  an  answer  to  a  sonnet  by  Guido  Orlandi,  written 
as  though  coming  from  a  lady,  and  beginning,  "  Onde  si 
muove  e  donde  nasce  Amore?"  On  this  canzone  of  Guido's 
there  are  known  to  exist  no  fewer  than  eight  commentaries, 
some  of  them  very  elaborate,  and  written  by  prominent 
learned  men  of  the  middle  ages  and  7'enaissance  ;  the  earliest 
being  that  by  Egidio  Colonna,  a  beatified  churchman  who 
died  in  1316  ;  while  most  of  the  too  numerous  Academic 
writers  on  Italian  literature  speak  of  this  performance  with 
great  admiration  as  Guido's  crowning  work.  A  love-song 
which  acts  as  such  a  fly-catcher  for  priests  and  pedants  looks 
very  suspicious  ;  and  accordingly,  on  examination,  it  proves 
to  be  a  poem  beside  the  purpose  of  poetry,  filled  with  meta- 
physical jargon,  and  perhaps  the  very  worst  of  Guido's  pro- 
ductions. Its  having  been  written  by  a  man  whose  life  and 
works  include  so  much  that  is  impulsive  and  real,  is  easily 
accounted  for  by  scholastic  pride  in  those  early  days  of  learn- 
ing. I  have  not  translated  it,  as  being  of  little  true  interest  ; 
but  was  pleased  lately,  nevertheless,  to  meet  with  a  remark- 
ably complete  translation  of  it  by  the  Rev.  Charles  T.  Brooks, 
of  Newport,  United  States.^  The  stiffness  and  cold  con- 
ceits which  prevail  in  this  poem  may  be  found  disfiguring 
much  of  what  Guido  Cavalcanti  has  left,  while  much  besides 

became  the  founders  of  the  ancient  Geraldine  family  in  Ireland.  The  Caval- 
canti reappear  now  and  then  in  later  European  history;  and  especially  we  hear 
of  a  second  Guido  Cavalcanti,  who  also  cultivated  poetry,  and  travelled  to 
collect  books  for  the  Ambrosian  Library;  and  who,  in  1563,  visited  England 
as  Ambassador  to  the  court  of  Elizabeth  from  Charles  IX.  of  France. 

1  This  translation  occurs  in  the  Appendix  to  an  Essay  on  the  Vita  Nuova, 
of  Dante,  includmg  extracts,  by  my  friend  Mr.  Charles  E.  Norton,  of  Cambridge, 
U.  S.,  — a  work  of  high  delicacy  and  appreciation,  which  originally  appeared 
by  portions  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  but  has  since  been  augmented  by  the 
author  and  privately  printed  in  a  volume  which  is  a  beautiful  specimen  of 
American  typography. 


Introduction  to  Part  /.  1 3 


is  blunt,  obscure,  and  abrupt  :  nevertheless,  if  it  need  hardly 
be  said  how  far  he  falls  short  of  Dante  in  variety  and  personal 
directness,  it  may  be  admitted  that  he  worked  worthily  at  his 
side,  and  perhaps  before  hirn,  in  adding  those  qualities  to 
Italian  poetry.  That  Guido's  poems  dwelt  in  the  mind  of 
Dante  is  evident  by  his  having  appropriated  lines  from  them 
(as  well  as  from  those  of  GuinicelU)  with  little  alteration, 
more  than  once,  in  the  Commedia. 

Towards  the  close  of  his  life,  Dante,  in  his  Latin  treatise 
De  Vulgar:  Ijloqido,  again  spi-uks  of  himself  as  the  friend  of 
a  poet,  —  this  time  of  Cmo  da  Pistoia.  In  an  early  passage 
of  that  work  he  says  that  "  those  who  have  most  sweetly  and 
subtly  written  poems  in  modern  Italian  are  Cino  da  Pistoia 
and  a  friend  of  his."  This  friend  we  afterwards  find  to  be 
Dante  himself;  as  among  the  various  poetical  examples 
quoted  are  several  by  Cino  followed  in  three  instances  l5y 
lines  from  Dante's  own  lyrics,  the  author  of  the  latter  being 
again  described  merely  as  "Amicus  ejus."  In  immediate 
proximity  to  these,  or  coupled  in  two  instances  with  examples 
from  Dante  alone,  are  various  quotations  taken  from  Guido 
Cavalcanti  ;  but  in  none  of  these  cases  is  anything  said  to 
connect  Dante  with  him  who  was  once  "  the  first  of  his 
friends."!  As  commonly  between -old  and  new,  the  change 
of  Guido's  friendship  for  Cino's  seems  doubtful  gain.  Cino's 
poetry,  like  his  career,  is  for  the  most  part  smoother  than 
that  of  Guido,  and  in  some  instances  it  rises  into  truth 
and  warmth  of  expression  :  but  it  conveys  no  idea  of  such 
powers,  for  life  or  for  work,  as  seem  to  have  distinguished  the 

1  It  is  also  noticeable  that  in  tlys  treatise  Dante  speaks  of  Guido  GuinicelU 
on  one  occasion  as  Guido  Maximiis,  thus  seeming  to  contradict  the  preterence 
of  Cavalcanti  which  is  usually  supposed  to  be  implied  in  the  passage  I  have 
quoted  from  the  Purgatory.  It  has  been  sometimes  surmised  (perhaps  for 
this  reason)  that  the  two  Guidos  there  spoken  of  may  be  Guittone  d'  Arezzo 
and  Guido  Guinicelli,  the  latter  being  said  to  surpass  the  former,  of  whom 
Dante  elsewhere  in  the  Purgatory  has  expressed  a  low  opinion.  But  I  should 
think  it  doubtful  whether  the  name  Guittone,  which  (if  not  a  nickname,  as 
some  say)  is  substantially  the  same  as  Guido,  could  be  so  absolutely  identified 
with  it  :  at  that  rate  Cino  da  Pistoia  even  might  be  classed  as  one  Guido,  his 
full  name,  Guittoncino,  being  the  diminutive  of  Guittone.  I  believe  it  more 
probable  that  Guinicelli  and  Cavalcanti  were  then  really  meant,  and  that  Dante 
afterwards  either  altered  his  opinion,  or  may  (conjecturably)  have  chosen  to 
imply  a  change  of  preference  in  order  to  gratify  Cino  da  Pistoia,  whom  he  so 
markedly  distinguishes  as  his  friend  throughout  the  treatise,  and  between  whom 
and  Cavalcanti  some  jealousy  appears  to  have  existed,  as  we  may  gather  from 
one  of  Cino's  sonnets  (at  page  125);  nor  is  Guido  mentioned  anywhere  with 
praise  by  Cino,  as  other  poets  are. 


14  Dante  afid  His  Circle. 

"Cavicchia"  of  Messer  Corso  Donati.  However,  his  one 
talent  (reversing  the  parable)  appears  generally  to  be  made 
the  most  of,  while  Guido 's  two  or  three  remain  uncertain 
through  the  manner  of  their  use. 

Cino's  Canzone  addressed  to  Dante  on  the  death  of  Bea- 
trice, as  well  as  his  answer  to  the  first  sonnet  of  the  Vita 
Nuova,  indicate  that  the  two  poets  must  have  become  ac- 
quainted in  youth,  though  there  is  no  earlier  mention  of  Cino 
in  Dante's  writings  than  those  which  occur  in  his  treatise  on 
the  Vulgar  Tongue.  It  might  perhaps  be  inferred  with  some 
plausibility  that  their  acquaintance  was  revived  after  an  inter- 
ruption by  the  sonnet  and  answer  at  pages  86-87,  and  that 
they  afterwards  corresponded  as  friends  till  the  period  of 
Dante's  death,  wiien  Cino  wrote  his  elegy.  Of  the  two  son- 
nets in  which  Cino  expresses  disapprobation  of  what  he  thinks 
the  partial  judgments  of  Dante's  Commedia,  the  first  seems 
written  before  the  great  poet's  death,  but  I  should  think  that 
the  second  dated  after  that  event,  as  the  Paradise,  to  which 
it  refers,  cannot  have  become  fully  known  in  its  author's  life- 
time. Another  sonnet  sent  to  Dante  elicited  a  Latin  epistle 
in  reply,  where  we  find  Cino  addressed  as  "frater  carissime." 
Among  Cino's  lyrical  poems  are  a  few  more  written  in  cor- 
respondence with  Dante,  which  I  have  not  translated  as  being 
of  little  personal  interest. 

Guittoncino  de'  Sinibuldi  (for  such  was  Cino's  full  name) 
was  born  in  Pistoia,  of  a  distinguished  family,  in  the  year 
1270.  He  devoted  himself  early  to  the  study  of  law,  and  in 
1307  was  Assessor  of  Civil  Causes  in  his  native  city.  In  this 
year,  and  in  Pistoia,  first  cradle  of  the  Black  and  White 
factions,  their  endless  contest  again  sprang  into  activity  ;  the 
<^^lacks  and  Guelfs  of  Florence  and  Lucca  driving  out  the 
Whites  and  Ghibellines,  who  had  ruled  in  the  city  since 
1300.  With  their  accession  to  power  came  many  iniquitous 
laws  in  favor  of  their  own  party  ;  so  that  Cino,  as  a  lawyer 
of  Ghibelline  opinions,  soon  found  it  necessary  or  advisable 
to  leave  Pistoia,  for  it  seems  uncertain  whether  his  removal 
was  voluntary  or  by  proscription.  He  directed  his  course 
towards  Lombardy,  on  whose  confines  the  chief  of  the 
White  party,  in  Pistoia,  Filippo  Vergiolesi,  still  held  the 
fortress  of  Pitecchio.  Hither  Vergiolesi  had  retreated  with 
his  family  and  adherents  when  resistance  in  the  city  became 
no  longer  possible  ;  and  it  may  be  supposed  that  Cino  came 


Introduction  to  Part  I.  15 

to  join  him,  not  on  account  of  political  sympathy  alone  ;  as 
Selvaggia  Vergiolesi,  his  daughter,  is  the  lady  celebrated 
throughout  the  poet's  compositions.  Three  years  later,  the 
Vergiolesi  and  their  followers,  finding  Pitecchio  untenable, 
fortified  themselves  on  the  Monte  della  Sambuca,  a  lofty  peak 
on  the  Apennines  ;  which  again  they  were  finally  obliged  to 
abandon,  yielding  it  to  the  Guelfs  of  Pistoia  at  the  price  of 
eleven  thousand  lire.  Meanwhile  the  bleak  air  of  the  Sam- 
buca had  proved  fatal  to  the  lady  Selvaggia,  who  remained 
buried  there,  or,  as  Gino  expresses  it  in  one  of  his  poems, 

*'  Cast  out  upon  the  steep  path  of  the  mountains, 
Where  Death  had  shut  her  in  between  hard  stones." 

Over  her  cheerless  tomb  Gino  bent  and  mourned,  as  he 
has  told  us,  when,  after  a  prolonged  absence  spent  partly  in 
France,  he  returned  through  Tuscany  on  his  way  to  Rome. 
He  had  not  been  with  Selvaggia's  family  at  the  time  of  her 
death  ;  and  it  is  probable  that,  on  his  return  to  the  Sambuca, 
the  fortress  was  already  surrendered,  and  her  grave  almost 
the  only  record  left  there  of  the  Vergiolesi. 

Gino's  journey  to  Rome  was  on  account  of  his  having  re- 
ceived a  high  office  under  Louis  of  Savoy,  who  preceded 
the  Emperor  Henry  VH.  when  he  went  thither  to  be  crowned 
in  1 3 10.  In  another  three  years  the  last  blow  was  dealt  to 
the  hopes  of  the  exiled  and  persecuted  Ghibellines,  by  the 
death  of  the  Emperor,  caused  almost  surely  by  poison. 
This  death  Gino  has  lamented  in  a  canzone.  It  probably  de- 
termined him  to  abandon  a  cause  which  seemed  dead,  and 
return,  when  possible,  to  his  native  city.  This  he  succeeded 
in  doing  before  13 19,  as  in  that  year  we  find  him  deputed, 
together  with  six  other  citizens,  by  the  Government  of  Pistoia 
to  take  possession  of  a  stronghold  recently  yielded  to  them. 
He  had  now  been  for  some  time  married  to  Margherita  degli 
Ughi,  of  a  very  noble  Pistoiese  family,  who  bore  him  a  son 
named  Mino,  and  four  daughters.  Diamante,  Beatrice,  Gio- 
vanna, and  Lombarduccia.  Indeed,  this  marriage  must  have 
taken  place  before  the  death  of  Selvaggia  in  1310,  as  in 
1325-26  his  son  Mino  was  one  of  those  by  whose  aid  from 
within  the  Ghibelline  Gastruccio  Antelminelli  obtained  pos- 
session of  Pistoia,  which  he  held  in  spite  of  revolts  till  his 
death  some  two  or  three  years  afterwards,  when  it  again  re- 
verted to  the  Guelfs. 


Dante  aiid  His  Circle. 


After  returning  to  Pistoia,  Cino's  whole  life  was  devoted 
to  the  attainment  of  legal  and  literary  fame.  In  these  pur- 
suits he  reaped  the  highest  honors,  and  taught  at  the  univer- 
sities of  Siena,  Perugia,  and  Florence  ;  having  for  his  disciples 
men  who  afterwards  became  celebrated,  among  whom  rumor 
has  placed  Petrarch,  though  on  examination  this  seems  very- 
doubtful.  A  sonnet  by  Petrarch  exists,  however,  commen- 
cing "  Piangete  donne  e  con  voi  pianga  Amore,"  written  as  a 
lament  on  Cino's  death,  and  bestowing  the  highest  praise  on 
him.  He  and  his  Selvaggia  are  also  coupled  with  Dante  and 
Beatrice  in  the  same  poet's  T?'iofiJi  d''  Amore  (cap,  4). 

Though  established  again  in  Pistoia,  Cino  resided  there 
but  little  till  about  the  time  of  his  death,  which  occurred  in 
1336-37.  His  monument,  where  he  is  represented  as  a  pro- 
fessor among  his  disciples,  still  exists  in  the  Cathedral  of 
Pistoia,  and  is  a  mediaeval  work  of  great  interest.  Messer 
Cino  de'  Sinibuldi  was  a  prosperous  man,  of  whom  we  have 
ample  records,  from  the  details  of  his  examinations  as  a 
student,  to  the  inventory  of  his  effects  after  death,  and  the 
curious  items  of  his  funeral  expenses.  Of  his  claims  as  a 
poet  it  may  be  said  that  he  filled  creditably  the  interval  which 
elapsed  between  the  death  of  Dante  and  the  full  blaze  of 
Petrarch's  success.  Most  of  his  poems  in  honor  of  Selvaggia 
are  full  of  an  elaborate  and  mechanical  tone  of  complaint 
which  hardly  reads  like  the  expression  of  a  real  love  ;  never- 
theless there  are  some,  and  especially  the  sonnet  on  her 
tomb  (at  page  123),  which  display  feeling  and  power.  The 
finest,  as  well  as  the  most  interesting,  of  all  his  pieces,  is  the 
very  beautiful  canzone  in  which  he  attempts  to  console 
Dante  for  the  death  of  Beatrice.  Though  I  have  found  much 
fewer  among  Cino's  poems  than  among  Guido's  which  seem 
to  call  for  translation,  the  collection  of  the  former  is  a  larger 
one.  Cino  produced  legal  writings  also,  of  which  the  chief 
one  that  has  survived  is  a  Commentary  on  the  Statutes  of 
Pistoia,  said  to  have  great  merit,  and  whose  production  in 
the  short  space  of  two  years  was  accounted  an  extraordinary 
achievement. 

Having  now  spoken  of  the  chief  poets  of  this  division,  it 
remains  to  notice  the  others  of  whom  less  is  known. 

Dante  da  Maiano  (Dante  being,  as  with  Alighieri,  the 
short  of  Durante,  and  Maiano  in  the  neighborhood  of  Fiesole) 
had  attained  some  reputation  as  a  poet  before  the  career  of 


lìitroditctioii  to  Part  I.  1 7 

his  great  namesake  began  ;  his  Sicilian  lady  Nina  (herself,  it 
is  said,  a  poetess,  and  not  personally  known  to  him)  going 
by  the  then  unequivocal  title  of  "  La  Nina  di  Dante."  This 
priority  may  also  be  inferred  from  the  contemptuous  answer 
sent  by  him  to  Dante  Alighieri's  dream-sonnet  in  the  Vita 
Nuova  (see  page  127).  All  the  writers  on  early  Italian 
poetry  seem  to  agree  in  specially  censuring  this  poet's 
rhymes  as  coarse  and  trivial  in  manner  ;  nevertheless,  they 
are  sometimes  distinguished  by  a  careless  force  not  to  be 
despised,  and  even  by  snatches  of  real  beauty.  Of  Dante 
da  Maiano's  life  no  record  whatever  has  come  down  to  us. 

Most  literary  circles  have  their  prodigal,  or  what  in  modern 
phrase  might  be  called  their  "  scamp  ;  "  and  among  our 
Danteans,  this  place  is  indisputably  filled  by  Cecco  Angio- 
LiERi,  of  Siena.  Nearly  all  his  sonnets  (and  no  other  pieces 
by  him  have  been  preserved)  relate  either  to  an  unnatu- 
ral hatred  of  his  father,  or  to  an  infatuated  love  for  the 
daughter  of  a  shoemaker,  a  certain  married  Becchina.  It 
would  appear  that  Cecco  was  probably  enamoured  of  her 
before  her  marriage  as  well  as  afterwards,  and  we  may  sur- 
mise that  his  rancor  against  his  father  may  have  been  partly 
dependent,  in  the  first  instance,  on  the  disagreements  arising 
from  such  a  connection.  However,  from  an  amusing  and 
lifelike  story  in  the  Decameron  (Gior.  ix.  Nov.  4)  we  learn 
that  on  one  occasion  Cecco's  father  paid  him  six  months' 
allowance  in  advance,  in  order  that  he  might  proceed  to  the 
Marca  d' Ancona,  and  join  the  suite  of  a  Papal  legate  who 
was  his  patron  ;  which  looks,  after  all,  as  if  the  father  had 
some  care  of  his  graceless  son.  The  story  goes  on  to  relate 
how  Cecco  (whom  Boccaccio  describes  as  a  handsome  and 
well-bred  man)  was  induced  to  take  with  him  as  his  servant 
a  fellow-gamester  with  whom  he  had  formed  an  intimacy 
purely  on  account  of  the  hatred  which  each  of  the  two  bore 
his  own  father,  though  in  other  respects  they  had  little  in 
common.  The  result  was  that  this  fellow,  during  the  journey, 
while  Cecco  was  asleep  at  Buonconvento,  took  all  his  money 
and  lost  it  at  the  gaming  table,  and  afterwards  managed  by 
an  adroit  trick  to  get  possession  of  his  horse  and  clothes, 
leaving  him  nothing  but  his  shirt.  Cecco  then,  ashamed  to 
return  to  Siena,  made  his  way,  in  a  borrowed  suit  and 
mounted  on  his  servant's  sorry  hack,  to  Corsignano,  where 
he  had  relations  ;  and  there  he  stayed  till  his  father  once 


Dante  and  His  Circle. 


more  (surely  much  to  his  credit)  made  him  a  remittance  of 
money.  Boccaccio  seems  to  say  in  conclusion  that  Cecco 
ultimately  had  his  revenge  on  the  thief. 

In  reading  many  both  of  Cecco's  love-sonnets  and  hate- 
sonnets,  it  is  impossible  not  to  feel  some  pity  for  the  indica- 
tions they  contain  of  self-sought  poverty,  unhappiness,  and 
natural  bent  to  ruin.  Altogether  they  have  too  much  curious 
individuality  to  allow  of  their  being  omitted  here  :  espe- 
cially as  they  afford  the  earliest  prominent  example  of  a 
naturalism  without  afterthought  in  the  whole  of  Italian  poe- 
try. Their  humor  is  sometimes  strong,  if  not  well  chosen  ; 
their  passion  always  forcible  from  its  evident  reality  :  nor 
indeed  are  several  among  them  devoid  of  a  certain  delicacy. 
This  quality  is  also  to  be  discerned  in  other  pieces  which  I 
have  not  included  as  having  less  personal  interest  ;  but  it 
must  be  confessed  that  for  the  most  part  the  sentiments 
expressed  in  Cecco's  poetry  are  either  impious  or  hcentious. 
Most  of  the  sonnets  of  his  which  are  in  print  are  here 
given  ;  ^  the  selections  concluding  with  an  extraordinary  one 
in  which  he  proposes  a  sort  of  murderous  crusade  against  all 
those  who  hate  their  fathers.  This  I  have  placed  last  (ex- 
clusive of  the  Sonnet  to  Dante  in  exile)  in  order  to  give  the 
writer  the  benefit  of  the  possibility  that  it  was  written  last, 
and  really  expressed  a  still  rather  blood-thirsty  contrition  ; 
belonging  at  best,  I  fear,  to  the  content  of  self-indulgence 
when  he  came  to  enjoy  his  father's  inheritance.  But  most 
likely  it  is  to  be  received  as  an  expression  of  impudence 
alone,  unless  perhaps  of  hypocrisy. 

Cecco  Angiolieri  seems  to  have  had  poetical  intercourse 
with  Dante  early  as  well  as  later  in  life  ;  but  even  from  the 
little  that  remains,  we  may  gather  that  Dante  soon  put  an 
end  to  any  intimacy  which  may  have  existed  between  them. 
That  Cecco  already  poetized  at  the  time  to  which  the 
Vita  Nuova  relates,  is  evident  from  a  date  given  in  one  of 
his  sonnets,  —  the  20th  June,  1291,  and  from  his  sonnet 
raising  objections  to  the  one  at  the  close  of  Dante's  auto- 
biography.    When  the  latter  was  written  he  was  probably  on 

1  It  may  be  mentioned  (as  proving  how  much  of  the  poetry  of  this  period 
still  remains  in  MS.)  that  Ubaldini,  in  his  Glossary  to  Barberino,  published 
in  1640,  cites  as  grammatical  examples  no  fewer  than  twenty-three  short  frag- 
ments from  Cecco  Angiolieri,  one  of  which  alone  is  to  be  found  among  the 
sonnets  which  I  have  seen,  and  which  I  believe  are  the  only  ones  in  print. 
Ubaldini  quotes  them  from  the  Strozzi  MSS. 


Introdìiction  to  Part  L  19 

good  terms  with  the  young  Alighieri  ;  but  within  no  great 
while  afterwards  they  had  discovered  that  they  could  not 
agree,  as  is  shown  by  a  sonnet  in  which  Cecco  can  find  no 
words  bad  enough  for  Dante,  who  has  remonstrated  with  him 
about  Becchina.^  Much  later,  as  we  may  judge,  he  again 
addresses  Dante  in  an  insulting  tone,  apparently  while  the 
latter  was  living  in  exile  at  the  court  of  Can  Grande  della 
Scala.  No  other  reason  can  well  be  assigned  for  saying  that 
he  had  "  turned  Lombard  ;  "  while  some  of  the  insolent 
allusions  seem  also  to  point  to  the  time  when  Dante  learnt 
by  experience  "  how  bitter  is  another's  bread  and  how  steep 
the  stairs  of  his  house." 

Why  Cecco  in  this  sonnet  should  describe  himself  as 
having  become  a  Roman,  is  more  puzzling.  Boccaccio  cer- 
tainly speaks  of  his  luckless  journey  to  join  a  Papal  legate, 
but  does  not  tell  us  whether  fresh  clothes  and  the  wisdom  of 
experience  served  him  in  the  end  to  become  so  far  identi- 
fied with  the  Church  of  Rome.  However,  from  the  sonnet 
on  his  father's  death  he  appears  (though  the  allusion  is 
desperately  obscure)  to  have  been  then  living  at  an  abbey  ; 
and  also,  from  the  one  mentioned  above,  we  may  infer  that 
he  himself,  as  well  as  Dante,  was  forced  to  sit  at  the  tables 
of  others  :  coincidences  which  almost  seem  to  afford  a 
glimpse  of  the  phenomenal  fact  that  the  bosom  of  the 
Church  was  indeed  for  a  time  the  refuge  of  this  shorn  lamb. 
If  so,  we  may  further  conjecture  that  the  wonderful  crusade- 
sonnet  was  an  amende  honorable  then  imposed  on  him, 
accompanied  probably  with  more  fleshly  penance. 

Though  nothing  indicates  the  time  of  Cecco  Angiolieri's 
death,  I  will  venture  to  surmise  that  he  outlived  the  writing 
and  revision  of  Dante's  Inferno,  if  only  by  the  token  that  he 
is  not  found  lodged  in  one  of  its  meaner  circles.  It  is  easy 
to  feel  sure  that  no  sympathy  can  ever  have  existed  for  long 
between  Dante  and  a  man  like  Cecco,  however  arrogantly 
the  latter,  in  his  verses,  might  attempt  to  establish  a  likeness 
and  even  an  equality.  We  may  accept  the  testimony  of  so 
reverent  a  biographer  as  Boccaccio,  that  the  Dante  of  later 
years  was  far  other  than  the  silent  and  awe-struck  lover  of 

1  Of  this  sonnet  I  have  seen  two  printed  versions,  in  both  of  which  the  text 
is  so  corrupt  as  to  make  them  very  contradictory  in  important  points  ;  but  I 
believe  that  by  comparing  the  two  Ì  have  given  its  meaning  correctly.  (See 
page  135.) 


20  Dante  and  His  Circle. 

the  Vita  Nuova  ;  but  he  was  still  (as  he  proudly  called 
himself)  "  the  singer  of  Rectitude,"  and  his  that  "  indig- 
nant soul  "  which  made  blessed  the  mother  who  had  borne 
him.-^ 

Lea\ing  to  his  fate  (whatever  that  may  have  been)  the 
Scamp  of  Dante's  Circle,  I  must  risk  the  charge  of  a  con- 
firmed taste  for  slang  by  describing  Guido  Orlandi  as  its 
Bore.  No  other  word  could  present  him  so  fully.  Very 
few  pieces  of  his  exist  besides  the  five  I  have  given.  In 
one  of  these,^  he  rails  against  his  political  adversaries  ;  in 
three,^  falls  foul  of  his  brother  poets  ;  and  in  the  remaining 
one,*  seems  somewhat  appeased  (I  think)  by  a  judicious 
morsel  of  flattery.  I  have  already  referred  to  a  sonnet  of  his 
which  is  said  to  have  led  to  the  composition  of  Guido 
Cavalcanti's  Canzone  on  the  Nature  of  Love.  He  has  an- 
other sonnet  beginning,  "  Per  troppa  sottiglianza  il  fil  si 
rompe,"  ^  in  which  he  is  certainly  enjoying  a  fling  at  some- 
body, and  I  suspect  at  Cavalcanti  in  rejoinder  to  the  very 
poem  which  he  himself  had  instigated.  If  so,  this  stamps 
him  a  master-critic  of  the  deepest  initiation.  Of  his  life 
nothing  is  recorded  ;  but  no  wish  perhaps  need  be  felt  to 
know  much  of  him,  as  one  would  probably  have  dropped  his 
acquaintance.  We  may  be  obliged  to  him,  however,  for  his 
character  of  Guido  Cavalcanti  (at  page  102),  which  is  boldly 
and  vividly  drawn. 

Next  follow  three  poets  of  whom  I  have  given  one  speci- 
men apiece.  By  Bernardo  da  Bologna  (page  139)  no 
other  is  known  to  exist,  nor  can  anything  be  learnt  of  his 
career.  Gianni  Alfani  was  a  noble  and  distinguished  Flor- 
entine, a  much  graver  man,  it  would  seem,  than  one  could 
judge  from  this  sonnet  of  his  (page  102),  which  belongs 
rather  to  the  school  of  Sir  Pandarus  of  Troy. 

Dino  Compagni,  the  chronicler  of  Florence,  is  represented 
here  by  a  sonnet  addressed  to  Guido  Cavalcanti,®  which  is 
all  the  more  interesting,  as  the  same  writer's  historical  work 

1  "  Alma  sdegnosa. 
Benedetta  colei  che  in  te  s'  incinse  !  " 

{Inferno^  C.  vili.) 
^  Page  142.  3  Pages  93,  102,  128.  ^  Page  105. 

5  This  sonnet,  as  printed,  has  a  gap  in  the  middle  ;  let  us  hope  (in  so  im- 
maculate a  censor)  from  unfitness  for  publication. 

6  Crescimbeni  ^Ist.  d.  Volg.  Pocs.)  gives  this  sonnet  from  a  MS.,  where  it 
is  headed  "To  Guido  Gumicelli;"  but  he  surmises,  and  I  have  no  doubt 
correctly,  that  Cavalcanti  is  really  the  person  addressed  in  it. 


Introduction  to  Part  I.  21 

furnishes  so  much  of  the  httle  known  about  Guido.  Dino, 
though  one  of  the  noblest  citizens  of  Florence,  was  devoted 
to  the  popular  cause,  and  held  successively  various  high 
offices  in  the  state.  The  date  of  his  birth  is  not  fixed,  but 
he  must  have  been  at  least  thirty  in  1289,  as  he  was  one  of 
the  Priori  in  that  year,  a  post  which  could  not  be  held  by 
a  younger  man.  He  died  at  Florence  in  1323.  Dino  has 
rather  lately  assumed  for  the  modern  reader  a  much  more 
important  position  than  he  occupied  before  among  the  early 
Italian  poets.  I  allude  to  the  valuable  discovery,  in  the 
Magliabecchian  Library  at  Florence,  of  a  poem  by  him  in 
nana  rima,  containing  309  stanzas.  It  is  entitled  ''  L'  Intelli- 
genza," and  is  of  an  allegorical  nature  interspersed  with 
historical  and  legendary  abstracts.^ 

I  have  placed  Lapo  Gianni  in  this  my  first  division  on 
account  of  the  sonnet  by  Dante  (page  96),  in  which  he 
seems  undoubtedly  to  be  the  Lapo  referred  to.  It  has  been 
supposed  by  some  that  Lapo  degli  liberti  (father  of  Fazio, 
and  brother-in-law  of  Guido  Cavalcanti)  is  meant  ;  but  this 
is  hardly  possible.  Dante  and  Guido  seem  to  have  been  in 
familiar  intercourse  with  the  Lapo  of  the  sonnet  at  the  time 
when  it  and  others  were  written  ;  whereas  no  Uberti  can 
have  been  in  Florence  after  the  year  1267,  when  the  Ghibel- 
lines  were  expelled  ;  the  Uberti  family  (as  I  have  mentioned 
elsewhere)  being  the  one  of  all  others  which  was  most  jeal- 
ously kept  afar  and  excluded  from  every  amnesty.  The  only 
information  which  I  can  find  respecting  Lapo  Gianni  is  the 
statement  that  he  was  a  notary  by  profession.  I  have  also 
seen  it  somewhere  asserted  though  (where  I  cannot  recollect, 
and  am  sure  no  authority  was  given),  that  he  was  a  cousin  of 
Dante.  We  may  equally  infer  him  to  have  been  the  Lapo 
mentioned  by  Dante  in  his  treatise  on  the  Vulgar  Tongue,  as 
being  one  of  the  few  who  up  to  that  time  had  written  verses 
in  pure  Italian. 

Dino  Frescobaldi's  claim  to  the  place  given  him  here 
will  not  be  disputed  when  it  is  remembered  that  by  his  i)ious 
care  the  first  seven  cantos  of  Dante's  Hell  were  restored  to 
him  in  exile,  after  the  Casa  Alighieri  in  Florence  had  been 
given  up  to  pillage  ;  by  which  restoration  Dante  was  enabled 
to  resume  his  work.     This  sounds  strange  when  we  reflect 

1  See  Doctitneiits  in'edits  pottr  servir  à  Vhistoire  littéraìre  de  V Italie^ 
etc.,  par  A.  F.  Ozanavi  (Pans,  1850),  where  the  poem  is  printed  entire. 


Dante  and  His  Circle. 


that  a  world  without  Dante  would  be  a  poorer  planet.  Mean- 
while, beyond  this  great  fact  of  Dino's  life,  which  perhaps 
hardly  occupied  a  day  of  it,  there  is  no  news  to  be  gleaned 
of  him. 

Giotto  falls  by  right  into  Dante's  circle,  as  one  great  man 
comes  naturally  to  know  another.  But  he  is  said  actually  to 
have  lived  in  great  intimacy  with  Dante,  who  was  about 
twelve  years  older  than  himself;  Giotto  having  been  born  in 
or  near  the  year  1 2  76,  at  Vespignano,  fourteen  miles  from 
Florence.  He  died  in  1336,  fifteen  years  after  Dante.  On 
the  authority  of  Benvenuto  da  Imola  (an  early  commentator 
on  the  Covwiedia),  of  Vasari,  and  others,  it  is  said  that  Dante 
visited  Giotto  while  he  was  painting  at  Padua  ;  that  the  great 
poet  furnished  the  great  painter  with  the  conceptions  of  a 
series  of  subjects  from  the  Apocalypse,  which  he  painted  at 
Naples  ;  and  that  Giotto,  finally,  passed  some  time  with 
Dante  in  the  exile's  last  refuge  at  Ravenna.  There  is  a  tra- 
dition that  Dante  also  studied  drawing  with  Giotto's  master 
Cimabue  ;  and  that  he  pracdsed  it  in  some  degree  is  evident 
from  the  passage  in  the   Vi/a  Niiona,  where  he  speaks  of  his 


drawing  an  angel.  The  reader  will  not  need  to  be  reminded 
of  Giotto's  portrait  of  the  youthful  Dante,  painted  in  the 
Bargello  at  Florence,  then  the  chapel  of  the  Podestà.  This 
is  the  author  of  the  Vita  Ahiova.  That  other  portrait  shown 
us  in  the  posthumous  mask  —  a  face  dead  in  exile  after  the 
death  of  hope  —  should  front  the  first  page  of  the  Sa,cred 
Poem  to  which  heaven  and  earth  had  set  their  hands,  but 
which  might  never  bring  him  back  to  Florence,  though  it 
had  made  him  haggard  for  many  years.^ 

Giotto's  canzone  on  the  doctrine  of  voluntary  poverty  — 
the  only  poem  we  have  of  his  —  is  a  protest  against  a  per- 
version of  gospel  teaching  which  had  gained  ground  in  his 
day  to  the  extent  of  becoming  a  popular  frenzy.  Peo])le 
went  Hterally  mad  upon  it  ;  and  to  the  reaction  against  this 
madness  may  also  be  assigned  (at  any  rate  partly)  Caval- 
canti's  poem  on  Poverty,  which,  as  we  have  seen,  is  other- 
wise not  easily  explained,  if  authentic.  Criotto's  canzone  is 
all  the  more  curious  when  we  remember  his  noble  fresco  at 

1  "  Se  mai  continga  che  il  poema  sacro 

Al  quale  ha  posto  mano  e  cielo  e  terra, 
Sì  che  m'  ha  fatto  per  più  anni  macro, 
Vinca  la  crudeltà  che  fuor  mi  serra,"  etc. 

{Paracl.  C.  xxv.) 


Introduction  to  Part  L  23 

Assisi,  of  Saint  Francis  wedded  to  Poverty  J  It  would  really 
almost  seem  as  if  the  poem  had  been  written  as  a  sort  of 
safety-valve  for  the  painter's  true  feelings,  during  the  com- 
position of  the  picture.  At  any  rate,  il  affords  another  proof 
of  the  strong  common  sense  and  turn  for  humor  which  all 
accounts  attribute  to  Giotto. 

I  have  next  introduced,  as  not  inappropriate  to  the  series 
of  poems  connected  with  Dante,  Simone  dall'  Antella's 
fine  sonnet  relating  to  the  last  enterprises  of  Henry  of  Lux- 
embourg, and  to  his  then  approaching  end,  —  that  death- 
blow to  the  Ghibelline  hopes  which  Dante  so  deeply  shared. 
This  one  sonnet  is  all  we  know  of  its  author,  besides  his 
name. 

Giovanni  Quirino  is  another  name  which  stands  forlorn  of 
any  personal  history.  Fraticelli  (in  his  well-known  and  valu- 
able edition  of  Dante's  Minor  Works)  says  that  there  lived 
about  1250  a  bishop  of  that  name,  belonging  to  a  Venetian 
family.  It  is  true  that  the  tone  of  the  sonnet  which  I  give 
(and  which  is  the  only  one  attributed  to  this  author)  seems 
foreign  at  least  to  the  confessions  of  bishops.  It  might  seem 
credibly  thus  ascribed,  however,  from  the  fact  that  Dante's 
sonnet  probably  dates  from  Ravenna,  and  that  his  corre- 
spondent writes  from  some  distance  ;  while  the  poet  might 
well  have  formed  a  friendship  with  a  Venetian  bishop  at  the 
court  of  Verona. 

For  me  Quirino's  sonnet  has  great  value  ;  as  Dante's 
answer^  to  it  enables  me  to  wind  up  this  series  with  the 
name  of  its  great  chief;  and,  indeed,  with  what  would  almost 
seem  to  have  been  his  last  utterance  in  poetry,  at  that 
supreme  juncture  when  he 

"  Slaked  in  his  heart  the  fervor  of  desire," 

as  at  last  he  neared  the  very  home 

"  Of  Love  which  sways  the  sun  and  all  the  stars."  ^ 

I  am  sorry  to  see  that  this  necessary  introduction  to  my 
first  division  is  longer  than  I  could  have  wished.     Among 

1  See  Dante's  reverential  treatment  of  this  subject  {Parad.  C.  xi.). 

2  In  the  case  of  the  above  two  sonnets,  and  of  all  others  interchanged 
between  two  poets,  I  have  thought  it  best  to  place  them  togetiier  among  the 
poems  of  one  or  the  other  correspondent,  wherever  they  seemed  to  have  most 
biographical  value  ;  and  the  same  with  several  epistolary  sonnets  which  have  no 
answer. 

3  The  last  line  of  the  Paradise  (C.wley's  Translation). 


Dante  mid  His  Cii'cle. 


the  severely-edited  books  which  had  to  be  consulted  in  form- 
ing this  collection,  I  have  often  suffered  keenly  from  the 
buttonholders  of  learned  Italy,  who  will  not  let  one  go  on 
one's  way  ;  and  have  contracted  a  horror  of  those  editions 
where  the  text,  hampered  with  numerals  for  reference,  strug- 
gles through  a  few  lines  at  the  top  of  the  page  only  to  stick 
fast  at  the  bottom  in  a  slough  of  verbal  analysis.  It  would 
seem  unpardonable  to  make  a  book  which  should  be  even  as 
these  ;  and  I  have  thus  found  myself  led  on  to  what  I  fear 
forms,  by  its  length,  an  awkward  miermezzo  to  the  volume, 
in  the  hope  of  saying  at  once  the  most  of  what  was  to  say  ; 
that  so  the  reader  may  not  find  himself  perpetually  worried 
with  footnotes  during  the  consideration  of  something  which 
may  require  a  little  peace.  The  glare  of  too  many  tapers  is 
apt  to  render  the  altar-picture  confused  and  inharmonious, 
even  when  their  smoke  does  not  obscure 'or  deface  it. 


DANTE   ALIGHIERI. 


THE   NEW   LIFE. 
(la  vita  nuova.) 

IN  that  part  of  the  book  of  my  memory  before  the  which 
is  Httle  that  can  be  read,  there  is  a  rubric,  saying,  In- 
cipit Vita  Nova}  Under  such  rubric  I  find  written  many 
things  ;  and  among  them  the  words  which  I  purpose  to  copy 
into  this  little  book  ;  if  not  all  of  them,  at  the  least  their 
substance. 

Nine  times  already  since  my  birth  had  the  heaven  of  light 
returned  to  the  selfsame  point  almost,  as  concerns  its  own 
revolution,  when  first  the  glorious  Lady  of  my  mind  was 
made  manifest  to  mine  eyes  ;  even  she  who  was  called 
Beatrice  by  many  who  knew  npt^herefore^'"^  She  had  al- 
ready been  in  this^ife  "for  so  long  as  that,  within  her  time, 
the  starry  heaven  had  moved  towards  the  Eastern  quarter 
one  of  the  twelve  parts  of  a  degree  ;  so  that  she  appeared 
to  me  at  the  beginning  of  her  ninth  year  almost,  and  I  saw 
her  almost  at  the  end  of  my  ninth  year.  Her  dress,  on  that 
day,  was  of  a  most  noble  color,  a  subdued  and  goodly  crim- 
son, girdled  and  adorned  in  such  sort  as  best  suited  with  her 
very  tender  age.  At  that  moment,  I  say  most  truly  that  the 
spirit  of  life,  which  hath  its  dwelling  in  the  secretest  chamber 
of  the  heart,  began  to  tremble  so  violently  that  the  least 

1  "  Here  beginneth  the  new  life." 

^  In  reference  to  the  meaning  of  the  name,  "  She  who  confers  blessing." 
We  learn  from  Boccaccio  that  this  first  meeting  took  place  at  a  May  Feast, 
given  in  the  year  1274  by  Folco  Portinari,  father  of  Beatrice,  who  ranked 
among  the  principal  citizens  of  Florence  :  to  which  feast  Dante  accompanied 
his  father,  Alighiero  Alighieri. 


26  Daìite  Alighieri. 


pulses  of  my  body  shook  therewith  ;  and  in  trembling  it  said 
these  words  :  £cce  dens  fortior  me,  qui  venie7is  dominabitiir 
mihi}  At  that  moment  the  animate  spirit,  which  dwelleth 
in  the  lofty  chamber  whither  all  the  senses  carry  their  per- 
ceptions, was  filled  with  wonder,  and  speaking  more  espe- 
cially unto  the  spirits  of  the  eyes,  said  these  words  :  Apparuit 
Jam  beatitiido  vestraP"  At  that  moment,  the  natural  spirit, 
which  dwelleth  there  where  our  nourishment  is  administered, 
began  to  weep,  and  in  weeping  said  these  words  :  Hen 
7niser  !  quia  frequente?'  imp  ed  it  us  ero  deÌ7iceps? 

1  say  that,  from  that  time  forward.  Love  quite  governed 
my  soul  ;  which  was  immediately  espoused  to  him,  and  with 
so  safe  and  undisputed  a  lordship  (by  virtue  of  strong  imagi- 
nation) that  I  had  nothing  left  for  it  but  to  do  all  his  bid- 
ding continually.  He  oftentimes  commanded  me  to  seek 
if  I  might  see  this  youngest  of  the  Angels  :  wherefore  I  in 
my  boyhood  otten  went  m  search  of  her,  and  found  her  so 
noble  and  praiseworthy  that  certainly  of  her  might  have 
been  said  those  words  of  the  poet  Homer,  "  She  seemed  not 

xpSs^  to  be  the  daughter  of  a  mortal  man,  but  of  God."  ^  And 
,  ^.  albeit  her  ima^ge,  that  was  with  me  always,  w^^  pn  eynlta- 
"T^  tion  of  Love  to  subdue  me,  it  was  vet  of  so  perfect  a  quality 
'  AQ\  K^that  it  never  allowed  me  to  be  overruled  bv  Love  without 
ijc*^  ±he  faithful  counsel  of  reasoix.  whensoever  such  counsel  was 
j-^P  \  useful  to  be  heard.  But  seeing  that  were  I  to  dwell  over- 
^S^  much  on  the  passions  and  doings  of  such  early  youth,  my 
I  words  might  be  counted  something  fabulous,  I  will  therefore 

put  them  aside  ;  and  passing  many  things  that  may  be  con- 
ceived by  the  pattern  of  these,  I  will  come  to  such  as  are 
writ  in  my  memory  with  a  better  distinctness. 

After  the  lapse  of  so  many  days  that  nine  years  exactly 
were  completed  since  the  above-written  appearance  of  this 
most  gracious  being,  on  the  last  of  those  days  it  happened 
that  the  same  wonderful  lady  appeared  to  me  dressed  all  in 
pure  white,  between  two  gentle  ladies  elder  than  she.  And 
passing  through  a  street,  she  turned  her  eyes  thither  where  I 
stood  sorely  abashed  :  and  by  her  unspeakable  courtesy, 
which  is  now  guerdoned  in  the  Great  Cycle,  she  saluted  me 

1^  "  Here  is  a  deity  stronger  than  I,  who,  coming,  shall  rule  over  me." 

2  "  Your  beatitude  hath  now  been  made  manifest  unto  you." 

3  "  Woe  is  me  !  for  that  often  I  shall  be  disturbed  from  this  time  forth  !  " 

4  Ov6è  èoj/cei 
'Ai'Spós  "ye  Qvqjov  Trai?  (fj-fj-evai,  àWà  0eolo. 

{//iad,  xxiv.  2 58.) 


The  Nezi/  Life. 


27 


V 


with  so  virtuous  a  bearing  that  I  seemed  then  and  there  to 
behold  the  very  limits  of  blessedness.  ''  The  hour  of  her  most 
sweet  salutation  was  exactly  the  ninth  of  that  day  ;  and  be- 
cause it  was  the  first  time  that  any'w^rds  from  her  reached 
mine  ears,  I  came  into  such  sweetness  that  I  parted  thence 
as  one  intoxicated.     And  betaking  me  to  the  loneliness  of 
mine  own  room,  I  fell  to  thinking  of  this  most  courteous 
lady,  thinking  of  whom  I  was  overtaken  by  a  pleasant  slum- 
ber, wherein  a  marvellous  vision  was  presented  to  me  :  for 
there  appeared  to  be  in  my  room  a  mist  of  the  color  of  fire, 
within  the  which  I  discerned  the  figure  of  a  lord  of  terrible 
aspect  to  such  as  should  gaze  upon  him,  but  who  seemed 
therewithal  to  rejoice  inwardly  that  it  was  a  marvel  to  see. 
Speaking  he  said   many  things,   among  the  which  I  could  ^ 
understand  but  few  ;  and  of  these,  this  :  Ego  domimis  tuns} 
In   his  arms  it  seemed  to  me  that  a  person  was  sleeping, 
covered  only  with  a  blood-colored  cloth  ;  upon  whom  look- 
ing very  attentively,  I  knew  that  it  was  the  lady  of  the  salu- 
tation who  had  deigned  the  day  before  to  salute  me.     And  i 
he  who  held  her  held  also  in  his  hand  a  thing  that  was  burn-  ' 
ing  in  flames  ;    and  he  said  to  me,  Vide  cor  tuum!^     But  ^ 
when  he  had  remained  with  me  a  little  while,  I  thought  that 
he  set  himself  to  awaken  her  that  slept  ;  after  the  which  he 
made  her  to  eat  that  thing  which  flamed  in  his  hand,  and 
she  ate  as  one  fearing.     Then,  having  waited  again  a  space, 
all  his  joy  was  turned  into  most  bitter  weeping  ;  and  as  he 
wept  he  gathered  the  lady  into  his  arms,  and  it  seemed  to 
me  that  he  went  with  her  up  towards  heaven  :  whereby  such 
a  great  anguish  came  upon  me  that  my  light  slumber  could  ^ 
not  endure  through  it,   but  was  suddenly  broken.     And  im-  1 
mediately  having  considered,  I  knew  that  the  hour  wherein  | 
this  vision  had  been  made  manifest  to  me  was  the  fourth 
hour  (which  is  to  say,  the  first  of  the  last  nine  hours)  of  the 
night.  L>"^-~-^ 

Then,  musing  on  what  I  had  seen,  I  proposed  to  relate 
the  same  to  many  poets  who  were  famous  in  that  day  :  and 
for  that  I  had  myself  in  some  sort  the  art  of  discoursing  with 
rhyme,  I  resolved  on  making  a  sonnet,  in  the  which,  having 
saluted  all  such  as  are  subject  unto  Love,  and  entreated 
them  to  expound  my  vision,  I  should  write  unto  them  those 


1  "  T  am  tliv  master.' 

2  ••  Behold  thy  heart. 


28  Da7ite  Alighieri. 


things  which  I  had  seen  in  my  sleep.     And  the  sonnet  I 
made  was  this  :  — 

To  every  heart  which  the  sweet  pain  doth  move, 
And  unto  which  these  words  may  now  be  brought 
For  true  interpretation  and  kind  thought, 

Be  greeting  in  our  Lord's  name,  which  is  Love. 

Of  those  long  hours  wherein  the  stars,  above. 

Wake  and  keep  watch,  the  third  was  almost  nought, 
When  Love  was  shown  me  with  such  terrors  fraught 

As  may  not  carelessly  be  spoken  of. 

He  seemed  hke  one  who  is  full  of  joy,  and  had 
My  heart  within  his  hand,  and  on  his  arm 
My  lady,  with  a  mantle  round  her,  slept  ; 

Whom  (having  wakened  her)  anon  he  made 
To  eat  that  heart  ;  she  ate,  as  fearing  harm. 
Then  he  went  out  ;  and  as  he  went,  he  wept. 

This  sonnet  is  divided  into  two  parts.  In  the  first  part 
I  give  greeting.,  and  ask  an  answer  ;  in  the  second,  I  signify 
what  thi?ig  has  to  be  answered  to.  The  second  part  com- 
mences here  :  "  Of  those  long  hoursP 

To  this  sonnet  I  received  many  answers,  conveying  many 
different  opinions  ;  of  the  which  one  was  sent  by  him  whom 
I  now  call  the  first  among  my  friends,  and  it  began  thus, 
"  Unto  my  thinking  thou  beheld'st  all  worth."  ^  And  in- 
deed, it  was  when  he  learned  that  I  was  he  who  had  sent 
those  rhymes  to  him,  that  our  friendship  commenced.  But 
the  true  meaning  of  that  vision  was  not  then  perceived  by 
any  one,  thougli  it  be  now  evident  to  the  least  skilful. 

From  that  night  forth,  the  natural  functions  of  my  body 
began  to  be  vexed  and  impeded,  for  I  was  given  up  wholly 
to  thinking  of  this  most  gracious  creature  :  whereby  in  short 
space  I  became  so  weak  and  so  reduced  that  it  was  irksome 
to  many  of  my  friends  to  look  upon  me  ;  while  others,  being 
moved  by  spite,  went  about  to  discover  what  it  was  my  wish 
should  be  concealed.  Wherefore  I  (perceiving  the  drift  of 
their  unkindly  questions),  by  Love's  will,  who  directed  me 
according  to  the  counsels  of  reason,  told  them  how  it  was 
Love  himself  who  had  thus  dealt  with  me  :  and  I  said  so, 
because  the  thing  was  so  plainly  to  be  discerned  in  my 
countenance  that  there  was  no  longer  any  means  of  conceal- 

1  The  friend  of  whom  Dante  here  speaks  was  Guido  Cavalcanti.  For  his 
answer,  and  those  of  Cino  da  Pistoia  and  Dante  da  Maiano,  see  their  poems 
further  on. 


lie  New  Life.  29 


ing  it.  But  when  they  went  on  to  ask,  "  And  by  whose  help 
hath  Love  done  this?"  I  looked  in  their  faces  smihng,  and 
spake  no  word  in  return. 

/  Now  it  fell  on  a  day,  that  this  most  gracious  creature  was 
sitting  where  words  were  to  be  heard  of  the  Queen  of 
Glory  ;  ^  and  I  was  in  a  place  whence  mine  eyes  could 
behold  their  beatitude  :  and  betwixt  her  and  me,  in  a  direct 
line,  there  sat  another  lady  of  a  pleasant  favor  ;  who  looked  , 
round  at  me  many  times,  marvelling  at  my  continued  gaze 
which  seemed  to  have  her  for  its  object.  And  many  per- 
ceived that  she  thus  looked  ;  so  that  departing  thence,  I 
heard  it  whispered  after  me,  "  Look  you  to  what  a  pass  such 
a  lady  hath  brought  him  ;"  and  in  saying  this  they  named 
her  who  had  been  midway  between  the  most  gentle  Beatrice 
and  mine  eyes.  Therefore  I  was  reassured,  and  knew  that 
for  that  day  my  secret  had  not  become  manifest.  Then 
immediately  it  came  into  my  mind  that  I  might  make  use  of 
this  lady  as  a  screen  to  the  truth  :  and  so  well  did  I  play  my 
part  that  the  most  of  those  who  had  hitherto  watched  and 
wondered  at  me,  now  imagined  they  had  found  me  out.  By 
her  means  I  kept  my  secret  concealed  till  some  years  were 
gone  over  ;  and  for  my  better  security,  I  even  made  divers 
rhymes  in  her  honor  ;  whereof  I  shall  here  write  only  as 
much  as  concerneth  tlia  most  gentle  Beatrice,  which  is  but  a 
very  little.  Moreover,  about  the  same  time  while  this  lady, 
was  a  screen  for  so  much  love  on  my  part,  I  took  the 
resolution  to  set  down  the  name  of  this  most  gracious  crea- 
ture accompanied  with  many  other  women's  names,  and 
especially  with  hers  whom  I  spake  of.  And  to  this  end  I 
put  together  the  names  of  sixty  the  most  beautiful  ladies  in 
that  city  where  God  had  placed  mine  own  lady  ;  and  these 
names  I  introduced  in  an  epistle  in  the  form  of  a  sirvent, 
which  it  is  not  my  intention  to  transcribe  here.  Neither 
should  I  have  said  anything  of  this  matter,  did  I  not  wish  to 
take  note  of  a  certain  strange  thing,  to  wit  :  that  having 
written  the  list,  I  found  my  lady's  name  would  not  stand 
otherwise  than  ninth  in  order  among  the  names  of  these 
ladies. 

Now  it  so  chanced  with  her  by  whose  means  I  had  thus 
long  time  concealed  my  desire,  that  it  behoved  her  to 
leave  the  city  I  speak  of,  and  to  journey  afar  :  wherefore  I, 

1  That  is,  in  a  church. 


30  Dante  Alighie.i. 


being  sorely  perplexed  at  the  loss  of  so  excellent  a  defence, 
had  more  trouble  than  even  I  could  before  have  supposed. 
And  thinking  that  if  I  spoke  not  somewhat  mournfully  of 
her  departure,  my  former  counterfeiting  would  be  the  more 
quickly  perceived,  I  determined  that  I  would  make  a 
grievous  sonnet  ^  thereof  ;  the  which  I  will  write  here,  be- 
cause it  hath  certain  words  in  it  whereof  my  lady  was  the 
immediate  cause,  as  will  be  plain  to  him  that  understands. 
And  the  sonnet  was  this  :  — 

All  ye  that  pass  along  Love's  trodden  way, 
Pause  ye  awhile  and  say 

If  there  be  any  grief  like  unto  mine  : 
I  pray  you  that  you  hearken  a  short  space 
Patiently,  if  my  case 

Be  not  a  piteous  marvel  and  a  sign. 

Love  (never,  certes,  for  my  worthless  part, 
But  of  his  own  great  heart) 

Vouchsafed  to  me  a  life  so  calm  and  sweet 
That  oft  I  heard  folk  question  as  I  went 
What  such  great  gladness  meant  :  — 

They  spoke  of  it  behind  me  in  the  street. 

But  now  that  fearless  bearing  is  all  gone 

Which  with  Love's  hoarded  wealth  was  given  me  ; 
Till  I  am  grown  to  be 

So  poor  that  I  have  dread  to  think  thereon. 

And  thus  it  is  that  I,  being  like  as  one 
Who  is  ashamed  and  hides  his  poverty, 
Without  seem  full  of  glee, 

And  let  my  heart  within  travail  and  moan.     . 

This  poem  has  two  principal  parts  ;  for,  in  the  first,  I 
mean  to  call  the  Faithful  of  Love  in  those  words  of  Jeremias 
the  Prophet,  "  O  vos  omnes  qui  transitis  per  viam,  attendite 
et  videte  si  est  dolor  sicut  dolor  meus,"  and  to  pray  them  to 
stay  and  hear  me.  In  the  second  I  tell  zvhere  Love  had 
placed  me,  with  a  meaning  other  than  that  which  the  last 
part  of  the  poefft  shows,  and  I  say  what  I  have  lost.  The 
seco7id part  begins  here,  "  Love  {?iever,  certes  "). 

1  It  will  be  observed  that  this  poem  is  not  what  we  now  call  a  sonnet.  Its 
structure,  however,  is  analogous  to  that  of  the  sonnet,  being  two  sextetts 
followed  by  two  quatrains,  instead  of  two  quatrains  followed  by  two  triplets. 
Dante  applies  the  term  sonnet  to  both  these  forms  of  composition,  and  to  no 
other. 


The  Nezv  Life.  31 


A  certain  while  after  the  departure  of  that  lady,  it  pleased 
the  Master  of  the  Angels  to  call  into  His  glory  a  damsel, 
young  and  of  a  gentle  presence,  who  had  been  very  lovely  in 
the  city  I  speak  of  :  and  I  saw  her  body  lying  without  its 
soul  among  many  ladies,  who  held  a  pitiful  weeping.  Where- 
upon, remembering  that  I  had  seen  her  in  the  company  of 
excellent  Beatrice,  I  could  not  hinder  myself  from  a  few 
tears  ;  and  weeping,  I  conceived  to  say  somewhat  of  her 
death,  in  guerdon  of  having  seen  her  somewhile  with  my 
lady  ;  which  thing  I  spake  of  in  the  latter  end  of  the  verses 
that  I  writ  in  this  matter,  as  he  will  discern  who  understands. 
And  I  wrote  two  sonnets,  which  are  these  :  — 


Weep,  Lovers,  sith  Love's  very  self  doth  weep, 
And  sith  the  cause  for  weeping  is  so  great  ; 
When  now  so  many  dames,  of  such  estate 

In  worth,  show  with  their  eyes  a  grief  so  deep  : 

For  Death  the  churl  has  laid  his  leaden  sleep 
Upon  a  damsel  who  was  fair  of  late. 
Defacing  all  our  earth  should  celebrate,  — 

Yea  all  save  virtue,  which  the  soul  doth  keep. 

Now  hearken  how  much  Love  did  honor  her. 
I  myself  saw  him  in  his  proper  form 

Bending^  above  the  motionless  sweet  dead, 

And  often  gazing  into  Heaven  ;  for  there 

The  soul  now  sits  which  when  her  life  was  warm 
Dwelt  with  the  joyful  beauty  that  is  fled. 

This  first  sonnet  is  divided  info  three  parts.  In  the  first, 
I  call  and  beseech  the  Faithful  of  Love  to  weep  ;  and  I  say 
that  their  Lord  weeps,  a?td  that  they,  hearing  the  reason  why 
he  weeps,  shall  be  more  minded  to  listen  to  me.  In  the  second, 
I  relate  this  reason.  In  the  third,  I  speak  of  honor  done  by 
Love  to  this  Lady.  The  second  part  begins  here,  "  When  now 
so  many  dames  ;  "  the  third  here,  *'  Now  hearken^ 

II. 

Death,  alway  cruel,  Pity's  foe  in  chief, 
Mother  who  broucjht  forth  orrief. 


Merciless  judgment  and  without  appeal 


Since  thou  alone  hast  made  my  heart  to  feel 
This  sadness  and  unweal, 
My  tongue  upbraideth  thee  without  relief. 


32  Dante  AligJiier 


And  now  (for  I  must  rid  thy  name  of  ruth) 

Behooves  me  speak  the  truth 

Touching  thy  cruelty  and  wickedness  : 

Not  that  they  be  not  known  ;  but  ne'ertheless 

I  would  give  hate  more  stress 

With  them  that  feed  on  love  in  very  sooth. 

Out  of  this  world  thou  hast  driven  courtesy, 
And  virtue,  dearly  prized  in  womanhood  ; 
And  out  of  youth's  gay  mood 

The  lovely  lightness  is  quite  gone  through  thee. 

Whom  now  I  mourn,  no  man  shall  learn  from  me 
Save  by  the  measure  of  these  praises  given. 
Whoso  deserves  not  Heaven 

May  never  hope  to  have  her  company. ^ 

This  poem  is  divided  into  four  parts.  In  the  first  I  ad- 
dress Death  by  certain  proper  7ia7nes  of  hers.  In  the  second, 
speaki?ig  to  her,  I  tell  the  reason  why  I  am  moved  to  de7ioiince 
her.  In  the  third,  I  rail  against  her.  In  the  fourth,  I  turn 
to  speak  to  a  person  undefined,  although  defined  in  my  ow?i 
concept  io  Ji.  The  second  part  commeJices  here,  ''  Since  *liou 
alofie  ;  "  the  third  here,  "  And  now  {for  I  inust);  "  the  fourth 
here,  "  Whoso  deserves  not.'' 

Some  days  after  the  death  of  this  lady,  I  had  occasion  to 
leave  the  city  I  speak  of,  and  to  go  thitherwards  where  she 
abode  who  had  formerly  been  my  protection  ;  albeit  the  end 
of  my  journey  reached  not  altogether  so  far.  And  notwith- 
standing that  I  was  visibly  in  the  company  of  many,  the  jour- 
ney was  so  irksome  that  I  had  scarcely  sighing  enough  to 
ease  my  heart's  heaviness  ;  seeing  that  as  I  went,  I  left  my 
beatitude  behind  me.  Wherefore  it  came  to  pass  that  he 
who  ruled  me  by  virtue  of  my  most  gentle  lady  was  made 
visible  to  my  mind,  in  the  light  habit  of  a  traveller,  coarsely 
fashioned.  He  appeared  to  me  troubled,  and  looked  always 
on  the  ground  ;   saving  only  that  sometimes  his  eyes  were 

1  The  commentators  assert  that  the  last  two  lines  here  do  not  allude  to  the 
dead  lady,  but  to  Beatrice.  This  would  make  the  poem  very  clumsy  in  con- 
struction ;  yet  there  must  be  some  covert  allusion  to  Beatrice,  as  Dante  him- 
self intimates.  The  only  form  in  which  I  can  trace  it  consists  in  the  implied 
assertion  that  such  person  as  had  enjoyed  the  dead  lady's  society  was  worthy  of 
heaven,  and  that  person  was  Beatrice.  Or  indeed  the  allusion  to  Beatrice 
might  iae  in  the  first  poem,  where  he  says  that  Love  "  in  forma  vera  "  (that 
is,  Beatrice)  mourned  over  the  corpse  :  as  he  afterwards  says  of  Beatrice, 
'•  Quella  ha  iioine  Ai/ior.^'     Most  probably  òoth  allusions  are  intended. 


The  New  Life.  33 


turned  towards  a  river  which  was  clear  and  rapid,  and  which 
flowed  along  the  path  I  was  taking.  And  then  I  thought 
that  Love  called  me  and  said  to  me  these  words  :  "  I  come 
from  that  lady  who  was  so  long  thy  surety  ;  for  the  matter  of 
whose  return,  I  know  that  it  may  not  be.  Wherefore  I  have 
taken  that  heart  which  I  made  thee  leave  with  her,  and  do 
bear  it  unto  '  another  lady,  who,  as  she  was,  shall  be  thy 
surety"  (and  when  he  named  her  I  knew  her  well).  "And 
of  these  words  I  have  spoken  if  thou  shouldst  speak  any 
again,  let  it  be  in  such  sort  as  that  none  shall  perceive  there- 
by that  thy  love  was  feigned  for  her,  which  thou  must  now 
feign  for  another."  And  when  he  had  spoken  thus,  all  my 
imagining  was  gone  suddenly,  for  it  seemed  to  me  that  Love 
became  a  part  of  myself  :  so  that,  changed  as  it  were  in  mine 
aspect,  I  rode  on  full  of  thought  the  whole  of  that  day,  and 
with  heavy  sighing.  And  the  day  being  over,  I  wrote  this 
sonnet  :  — 

A  DAY  agone,  as  I  rode  sullenly 

Upon  a  certain  path  that  liked  me  not, 

I  met  Love  midway  while  the  air  was  hot, 
Clothed  lightly  as  a  wayfarer  might  be. 
And  for  the  cheer  he  showed,  he  seemed  to  me 

As  one  who  hath  lost  lordship  he  had  got  ; 

Advancing  tow'rds  me  full  of  sorrowful  thought, 
Bowing  his  forehead  so  that  none  should  see. 
Then  as  I  went,  he  called  me  by  my  name, 

Saying  :  "  I  journey  since  the  morn  was  dim 

Thence  where  I  made  thy  heart  to  be  :  which  now 
I  needs  must  bear  unto  another  dame." 

Wherewith  so  much  passed  into  me  of  him 
That  he  was  gone,  and  I  discerned  not  how. 

This  sonnet  has  three  parts.  In  the  first  part,  I  tell  how 
I  met  Love,  and  of  his  aspect.  In  the  second,  I  tell  what  he 
said  to  7ne,  although  not  in  full,  through  the  fear  I  had  of 
discovering  7ny  secret.  In  the  third,  I  say  how  he  disappeared. 
The  second  part  commences  het-e,  "  The7i  as  I  went  ;^^  the 
third  he7'e,  "  Wherewith  so  much.'''' 

On  my  return,  I  set  myself  to  seek  out  that  lady  whom 
my  master  had  named  to  me  while  I  journeyed  sighing. 
And  because  I  would  be  brief,  I  will  now  narrate  that  in  a 
short  while  I  made  her  my  surety,  in  such  sort  that  the 
matter  was  spoken  of  by  many  in  terms  scarcely  courteous  ; 

3 


34  Dante  AligJiieri. 


through  the  which  I  had  oftenwhiles  many  troublesome 
hours.  And  by  this  it  happened  (to  wit  :  by  this  false  and 
evil  rumor  which  seemed  to  misfame  me  of  vice)  that  she 
who  was  the  destroyer  of  all  evil  and  the  queen  of  all  good, 
coming  where  I  was,  denied  me  her  most  sweet  salutation, 
in  the  which  alone  was  my  blessedness. 

And  here  it  is  fitting  for  me  to  depart  a  little  from  this 
present  matter,  that  it  may  be  rightly  understood  of  what 
w  surpassing  virtue  her  salutation  was  to  me.  To  the  which 
end  I  say  that  when  she  appeared  in  any  place,  it  seemed 
to  me,  by  the  hope  of  her  excellent  salutation,  that  there  was 
no  man  mine  enemy  any  longer  ;  and  such  warmth  of  charity 
came  upon  me  that  most  certainly  in  that  moment  I  would 
have  pardoned  whosoever  had  done  me  an  injury  ;  and  if 
one  should  then  have  questioned  me  concerning  any  matter, 
I  could  only  have  said  unto  him  "  Love,"  with  a  countenance 
clothed  in  humbleness.  And  what  time  she  made  ready  to 
salute  me,  the  spirit  of  Love^  destroying  all  other  percep- 
tions, thrust  forth  the  feeble  spirits  of  my  eyes,  saying,  "  Do 
homage  unto  your  mistress,"  and  putting  itself  in  their  place 
to  obey  :  so  that  he  who  would,  might  then  have  beheld 
Love,  beholding  the  lids  of  my  eyes  shake.  And  when  this 
most  gentle  lady  gave  her  salutation.  Love,  so  far  from  being 
a  medium  beclouding  mine  intolerable  beatitude,  then  bred 
in  me  such  an  overpowering  sweetness  that  my  body,  being 
all  subjected  thereto,  remained  many  times  helpless  and 
passive.  Whereby  it  is  made  manifest  that  in  her  salutation 
alone  was  there  any  beatitude  for  me,  which  then  very  often 
went  beyond  my  endurance. 

And  now,  resuming  my  discourse,  I  will  go  on  to  relate 
that  when,  for  the  first  time,  this  beatitude  was  denied  me,  I 
became  possessed  with  such  grief  that,  parting  myself  from 
others,  I  went  into  a  lonely  place  to  bathe  the  ground  with 
most  bitter  tears  :  and  when,  by  this  heat  of  weeping,  I  was 
somewhat  relieved,  I  betook  myself  to  my  chamber,  where  I 
could  lament  unheard.  And  there,  having  prayed  to  the 
Lady  of  all  Mercies,  and  having  said  also,  "O  Love,  aid 
thou  thy  servant  ;  "  I  went  suddenly  asleep  like  a  beaten 
sobbing  child.  And  in  my  sleep,  towards  die  middle  of  it, 
I  seemed  to  see  in  the  room,  seated  at  my  side,  a  youth  in 
very  white  raiment,  who  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  me  in  deep 
thought.     And  when  he   had   gazed  some  time,  I  thought 


TJie  New  Life.  35 


that  he  sighed  and  called  to  me  in  these  words  :  "  Fili  mi, 
tempus  est  ut  prcetermittantur  si?mdata  nostra^  i"  And 
thereupon  I  seemed  to  know  him  ;  for  the  voice  was  the 
same  wherewith  he  had  spoken  at  other  times  in  my  sleep. 
Then  looking  at  him,  I  perceived  that  he  was  weeping  pite- 
ously,  and  that  he  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  me  to  speak. 
Wherefore,  taking  heart,  I  began  thus  :  ''  Why  weepest  thou, 
Master  of  all  honor?  "  And  he  made  answer  to  me  :  *'  Ego 
tajiquam  centrum  circuii,  cui  simili  modo  se  habent  circum- 
ferentice  partes  :  tu  autem  non  sic.""  ^  And  thinking  upon 
his  words,  they  seemed  to  me  obscure  ;  so  that  again  com- 
pelling myself  unto  speech,  I  asked  of  him  :  "  What  thing  is 
this,  Master,  that  thou  hast  spoken  thus  darkly?"  To  the 
which  he  made  answer  in  the  vulgar  tongue  :  "  Demand  no 
more  than  may  be  useful  to  thee."  Whereupon  I  began  to 
discourse  with  him  concerning  her  salutation  which  she  had 
denied  me  ;  and  when  I  had  questioned  him  of  the  cause, 
he  said  these  words  :  "  Our  Beatrice  hath  heard  from  cer- 
tain persons,  that  the  lady  whom  I  named  to  thee  while  thou 
journeyedst  full  of  sighs  is  sorely  disquieted  by  thy  solicita- 
tions :  and  therefore  this  most  gracious  creature,  who  is  the 
enemy  of  all  disquiet,  being  fearful  of  such  disquiet,  refused 
to  salute  thee.  For  the  which  reason  (albeit,  in  very  sooth, 
thy  secret  must  needs  have  become  known  to  her  by  familiar 
observation)  it  is  my  will  that  thou  compose  certain  things 
in  rhyme,  in  the  which  thou  shalt  set  forth  how  strong  a 
mastership  I  have  obtained  over  thee,  through  her  ;  and  how 
thou  wast  hers  even  from  thy  childhood.  Also  do  thou  call 
upon  him  that  knoweth  these  things  to  bear  witness  to  them, 
bidding  him  to  speak  with  her  thereof;  the  which  I,  who  am 
he,  will  do  willingly.  And  thus  she  shall  be  made  to  know 
thy  desire  ;  knowing  which,  she  shall  know  likewise  that  they 

1  "  My  son,  it  is  time  for  us  to  lay  aside  our  counterfeiting." 

2  "  I  am  as  the  centre  of  a  circle,  to  the  which  all  parts  of  the  circumference 
bear  an  equal  relation  :  but  with  thee  it  is  not  thus."  This  phrase  seems  to 
have"  remained  as  obscure  to  commentators  as  Dante  found  it  at  the  moment. 
No  on*",  as  far  as  I  know,  has  even  fairly  tried  to  find  a  meaning  for  it.  To 
me  the  following  appears  a  not  unlikely  one.  Love  is  weeping  on  Dante's 
account,  and  not  on  his  own.  He  says,  "  I  am  the  centre  of  a  circle  {Amor 
che  iiiKove  il  sole  e  V  altre  stelle.)  :  therefore  all  lovable  objects,  whether  in 
heaven  or  earth,  or  any  part  of  the  circle's  circumference,  are  equally  near  to 
me.  Not  so  thou,  who  wilt  one  day  lose  Beatrice  when  she  goes  to  heaven." 
The  phrase  would  thus  contain  an  intimation  of  the  death  of  Beatrice,  ac- 
counting for  Dante  being  next  told  not  to  inquire  the  meaning  of  the  speech, — 
"  Demand  no  more  than  may  be  useful  to  thee." 


36  Dajite  Alighieri. 


were  deceived  who  spake  of  thee  to  her.  And  so  write  these 
things,  that  they  shall  seem  rather  to  be  spoken  by  a  third 
person,  and  not  directly  by  thee  to  her,  which  is  scarce 
fitting.  After  the  which,  send  them,  not  without  me,  where 
she  may  chance  to  hear  them  ;  but  have  them  fitted  with  a 
pleasant  music,  into  the  which  I  will  pass  whensoever  it 
needeth."  With  this  speech  he  was  away,  and  my  sleep 
was  broken  up. 

Whereupon,  remembering  me,  I  knew  that  I  had  beheld 
this  vision  during  the  ninth  hour  of  the  day  ;  and  I  resolved 
that  I  would  make  a  ditty,  before  I  left  my  chamber,  according 
to  the  words  my  master  had  spoken.  And  this  is  the  ditty 
that  I  made  :  — 

Song,  't  is  my  will  that  thou  do  seek  out  Love, 

And  go  with  him  where  my  dear  lady  is  ; 

That  so  my  cause,  the  which  thy  harmonies 
Do  plead,  his  better  speech  may  clearly  prove. 

Thou  goest,  my  Song,  in  such  a  courteous  kind, 
That  even  companionless 

Thou  mayst  rely  on  thyself  anywhere. 
And  yet,  an  thou  wouldst  get  thee  a  safe  mind, 
First  unto  Love  address 
Thy  steps  ;  whose  aid,  mayhap,  't  were  ill  to  spare, 
Seeing  that  she  to  whom  thou  mak'st  thy  prayer 
Is,  as  I  think,  ill-minded  unto  me. 
And  that  if  Love  do  not  companion  thee, 

Thou  'it  have  perchance  small  cheer  to  tell  me  of. 

With  a  sweet  accent,  when  thou  com'st  to  her, 
Begin  thou  in  these  words. 

First  having  craved  a  gracious  audience  : 
"  He  who  hath  sent  me  as  his  messenger, 
Lady,  thus  much  records. 

An  thou  but  suffer  him,  in  his  defence. 
Love,  who  comes  wnth  me,  by  thine  influence 

Can  EPallP   t]-^]^   pi^n   '^^  '"=   '^   lU-nth    hirnT 

Wherefore,  if  this  fault  is  or  doth  but  see7?t 

Do  thou  conceive  :  for  his  heart  cannot  move." 

Say  to  her  also  :  "  y,i-^rlyi  his  poor  heart 

That  all  its  thoughts  are  but  of  serving  thee  : 
'T  was  early  thine,  and  could  not  swerve  apsrt:" 
Then,  if  she  wavereth, 


TJie  New  Life.  37 


Bid  her  ask  Love,  who  knows  if  these  things  be. 

And  in  the  end,  beg  of  her  modestly 
To  pardon  so  much  boldness  :  saying  too  :  — 
"  If  thou  declare  his  death  to  be  thy  due, 

The  thing  shall  come  to  pass,  as  doth  behove." 

Then  pray  thou  of  the  Master  of  all  ruth. 
Before  thou  leave  her  there. 

That  he  befriend  my  cause  and  plead  it  well. 
"  In  guerdon  of  my"  sweet  rhymes  and  my  truth," 
Entreat  him,  ^'  stav  withJier  ; 

Let  not  the  hope  of  thy  ^oor  servant  fail  ; 
Andlii-wiUiJier  thy  pleadin^g^  should  prevails 
Let  her  look  on  him  and  give  peace  to  him." 
Gentle.my  Song,  it  good  to  thee  it  seem. 
Do  this  :  so  worship  shall  be  thine  and  love. 

I'his  ditty  is  divided  into  three  parts.  In  the  first,  I  tell  it 
whither  to  go,  and  I  encourage  it,  that  it  may  go  the  77iore  con- 
fidently, and  I  tell  it  whose  company  to  join  if  it  would  go 
with  confidence  and  without  any  danger.  In  the  second,  I  say 
that  which  it  behoves  the  ditty  to  set  forth.  In  the  third,  I  give 
it  leave  to  start  wheti  it  pleases,  reco??imending  its  course  to  the 
arms  of  Fortune.  The  second  part  begins  here,  "  With  a 
sweet  accent;""  the  third  here,  ^''Gentle  my  So?tg.'^  Some 
might  contradict  me.,  and  say  that  they  understand  not  who7n 
I  address  i?i  the  second  person,  seeing  that  the  ditty  is  merely 
the  very  ivords  I  am  speaking.  A?id  therefore  I  say  that  this 
doubt  I  intend  to  solve  and  clear  up  iji  this  little  book  itself 
at  a  7nore  difficult  passage,  and  then  let  him  understand  who 
now  doubts,  or  would  now  contradict  as  aforesaid. 

After  this  vision  I  have  recorded,  and  having  written  those 
words  which  Love  had  dictated  to  me,  I  began  to  be  harassed 
\\\\\\  many  and  divers  thoughts,  by  each  of  which  I  was  sorely 
tempted  ;  and  in  especial,  there  were  four  among  them  that 
left  me  no  rest.  The  first  was  this  :  "  Certainly  the  lordship 
of  Love  is  good  ;  seémg'that  it  diverts  the  mincj  from  all  méafì 
tilings."  Tlie  second  was  this  :  '^  Certainly  the  lordship  of 
Love  is  evil  ;  seeing  that  the  more  homage  his  servants  pay  to 
him,  the  more" grievous  and  painful  are  the  torments  where- 
with he  torments  ITiem."  The  third  was  this:  "The  name 
dr  Love  "is  so  svvèéFTn  the  hearing  that  it_would  not  seem 
possible  for  its  effects  to  be  other  than  sweet  ;  seeing  that  the 
name  must  needs  be  like  unto  the  thing  named  :  as  it  is 


38  Dante  AligJiieri. 


written  :  Nomina  siml  consegiientia  fenim.''  ^  And  the  fourth 
was  this  :  '' The  lady  whom  Love  hath  chosen  out  to  govern 
th£e„is  not  as  other  ladies,  whose  hearts  are  easily  moved." 

And  by  each  one  of  these  thouglits  I  was  so  sorely  assailed 
that  I  was  like  unto  him  who  doubteth  which  path  to  take, 
and  wishing  to  go,  goeth  not.  And  if  I  bethought  myself  to 
seek  out  some  point  at  the  which  all  these  paths  might  be 
found  to  meet,  I  discerned  but  one  way,  and  that  irked  me  ; 
to  wit,  to  call  upon  Pity,  and  to  commend  myself  unto  her. 
And  it  was  then  that,  feeling  a  desire  to  write  somewhat 
thereof  in  rhyme,  I  wrote  this  sonnet  :  — 

All  m.v  thouo:hts  always  speak  to jne, pf-Lov^» 
~^'*'TethavèT)etween  themselves  such  difference 

That  while  one  bids  me  bow  with  mind  and  sense, 
A  second  saith,  "  Go  to  :  look  thou  above  ;  " 
The  third  one,  hoping,  yields  me  joy  enough  ; 

And  with  the  last  come  tears,  I  scarce  know  whence: 

All  of  them  craving  pity  in  sore  suspense, 
Trembling  with  fears  that  the  heart  knoweth  of. 
And  thus,  being  all  unsure  which  path  to  take, 

Wishing  to  speak  I  know  not  what  to  say, 
And  lose  myself  in  amorous  wanderings  : 
Until  (my  peace' with  all  of  them  to  make), 

Unto  mine  enemy  I  needs  must  pray, 
My  Lady  Pity,  for  the  help  she  brings. 

T/iis  somiet  may  he  divided  into  four  parts.  In  the  Jirst^ 
I_say  and pro_pou7id  that  all  njy  thoughts  are  concerjiing Love, 
In  the  second,  I  say  thai  they  are  divej'se^  a7id  I  relate  their 
diversity.  In  the  third,  I  say  wherein  they  all  seefn  to  agree. 
In  the  fourth,  I  say  that,  Tmsjufigtq  sjeak  of  I^ 
not  from  which  of  these  thoughts  to  take  my  argument  ;  and 
that  if  I  ivoiild  take  ft  froiii  all,  I  shall  have  to  call  upon 
7nine  enemy,  7?iy  Lady  Pity.  "  Lady  "  I  say,  as  in  a  scor7ful 
7710 de  of  speech.  The  seco7id  begi7is  here,  *'  Yet  have  hetwee7i 
the77iselves  ;  "  the  third,  ^'  All  of  the7n  cravÌ7ig  ;  "  the  fourth, 
''And  thus:' 

After  this  battling  with  many  thoughts,  it  chanced  on  a 
day  that  my  most  gracious  lady  was  with  a  gathering  of  ladies 
in  a  certain  place  ;  to  the  which  I  was  conducted  by  a  friend 
of  mine,  he  thinking  to  do  me  a  great  pleasure  by  showing 
me  the  beauty  of  so  many  women.     Then  Ij  hardly  knowing 

1  "  Names  are  the  consequents  of  things," 


TJie  Nezv  Life.  39 


whereunto  he  conducted  me,  but  trusting  in  him  (who  yet 
was  leachng  his  friend  to  the  last  verge  of  hfe),  made  ques- 
tion :  "To  what  end  are  we  come  among  these  ladies?"  and 
he  answered  :  "  To  the  end  that  they  may  be  worthily  served." 
And  they  were  assembled  around  a  gentlewoman'  who  was 
given  in  marriage  on  that  day  ;  the  custom  of  the  city  being 
that  these  should  bear  her  company  when  she  sat  down  for 
the  first  time  at  table  in  the  house  of  her  husband.  There- 
fore I,  as  was  my  friend's  pleasure,  resolved  to  stay  with 
him  and  do  honor  to  those  ladies. 

But  as  soon  as  I  had  thus  resolved,  I  began  to  feel  a  faint- 
ness  and  a  throbbing  at  my  left  side,  which  soon  took  pos- 
sessioii  of  my  whole  body.  Whereupon  I  remember  that  I 
covertly  leaned  my  back  unto  a  painting  that  ran  round  the 
walls  of  that  house  ;  and  being  fearful  lest  my  trembling 
should  be  discerned  of  them,  I  lifted  mine  eyes  to  look  on 
those  ladies,  and  then  first  perceived  among  them  the  excel- 
lent Beatrice.  _And  when  I  perceived  her,  all  my  senses 
were  overpowered  by  the  great  lordship  that  Love  obtained, 
finding  himself  so  near  unto  that  most  gracious  being,  until 
nothing  but  the  spirits  of  sight  remained  to  me  ;  and  even 
these  remained  driven  out  of  their  own  instruments  because 
Love  entered  in  that  honored  place  of  theirs,  that  so  he 
might  the  better  behold  her.  And  although  I  was  other  than 
at  first,  I  grieved  for  the  spirits  so  expelled,  which  kept  up  a  *^  c  , 
sore  lament,  saying  :  "  If  he  had  not  in  this  wise  thrust  us  M"*^  JJJJjj 
forth,  vve  also  should  behold  the  marvel  of  this  lady."  By  ^^^t^^^y» 
this,  many  ofTier^ friends,  having  discerned  my  confusion,  ^r^ 
began  to  wonder  ;  and  together  with  herself,  kept  whispering 
of  me  and  mocking  me.  Whereupon  my  friend,  who  knew 
not  what  to  conceive,  took  me  by  the  hands,  and  drawing  me 
forth  from  among  them,  required  to  know  what  ailed  me. 
Then,  having  first  held  me  at  quiet  for  a  space  until  my  per- 
ceptions were  come  back  to  me,  I  made  answer  to  my  friend  : 
"  Of  a  surety  I  have  now  set  my  feet  on  that  point  of  life, 
beyond  the  which  he  must  not  pass  who  would  return."  ^ 

1  It  is  difficult  not  to  connect  Dante's  agony  at  this  wedding-feast,  with  our 
knowledge  that  in  her  twenty-first  year  Beatrice  was  wedded  to  Simone  de' 
Bardi.  That  she  herself  was  the  bride  on  this  occasion  might  seem  out  of  the 
question,  from  the  fact  of  its  not  being  in  any  way  so  stated  :  but  on  the  other 
hand,  Dante's  silence  throughout  the  Vita  Nitova  as  regards  her  marriage 
(which  must  have  brought  deep  sorrow  even  to  his  ideal  love)  is  so  startling, 
that  we  might  almost  be  led  to  conceive  in  this  passage  the  only  intimation  of 
it  which  he  thought  fit  to  give. 


40  Dante  Alighieri. 


Afterwards,  leaving  him,  I  went  back  to  the  room  where  I 
had  wept  before  ;  and  again  weeping  and  ashamed,  said  :  "  If 
this  lady  but  knew  of  my  condition,  I  do  not  think  that  she 
would  thus  mock  at  me  ;  nay,  I  am  sure  that  she  must  needs 
feel  some  pity."  And  in  my  weeping  I  bethought  me  to 
write  certain  words,  in  the  which,  speaking  to  her,  I  should 
signify  the  occasion  of  my  disfigurement,  telling  her  also  how 
I  knew  that  she  had  no  knowledge  thereof:  which,  if  it  were 
known,  I  was  certain  must  move  others  to  pity.  And  then, 
because  I  hoped  that  peradventure  it  might  come  into  her 
hearing,  I  wrote  this  sonnet  :  — ■ 


\ 


Even  as  the  others  mock,  thou  meekest  me  ; 

Not  dreaming,  noble  lady,  whence  it  is 

That  I  am  taken  with  strange  semblances. 
Seeing  thy.^ii^^  ^^^^^^'ch  is  so  fair  to  see  : 
For  else,  compassion  would  not  sutler  thee        *"  ~  ~  -  -  - 

To  grieve  my  heart  with  such  harsh  scoffs  as  these. 

Lo  !  Love,  when  thou  art  present,  sits  at  ease, 
And  bears  his  mastership  so  mightily 
That  all  my  troubled  senses  he  thrusts  out, 

Sorely  tormenting  some,  and  slaying  some, 
Till  none  but  he  is  left  and  has  free  range 
To  gaze  on  thee.     This  makes  my  face  to  change 

Into  another's  ;  while  I  stand  all  dumb. 
And  hear  my  senses  clamor  in  their  rout. 

This  so7inet  I  divide  not  into  parts,  becmise  a  division  is 
only  7nade  to  open  the  7neaning  of  the  thing  divided  :  and 
this,  as  it  is  sufficie7itly  ijianifest  through  the  7'easons  given, 
has  no  need  of  division.  True  it  is  that,  amid  the  tvords 
whereby  is  shown  the  occasion  of  this  sonnet,  dubious  words 
are  to  be  fowid  ;  iianiely,  whe?i  I  say  that  Love  fills  all  my 
spirits-,  but  that  the  visual  re77iain  Ì7i  life,  only  outside  of 
their  own  Ì7istru77ients .  And  this  difficulty  it  is  impossible 
for  a7iy  to  solve  who  is  7iot  in  equal  guise  liege  tmto  Love  ; 
a7id,  to  those  who  a7'e  so.,  that  is  77ia7iifest  which  would  clear 
up  the  dubious  words.  A7id  the7'efo7'e  it  7vere  7iot  well  for 
77te  to  expoimd  this  difficulty,  Ì7iasmuch  as  my  speakÌ7ig  would 
be  either  fruitless  or  else  supe7'fiuous. 

A  while  after  this  strange  disfigurement,  I  became  pos- 
sessed with  a  strong  conception  which  left  me  but  very 
seldom,  and  then  to  return  quickly.  And  it  was  this  :  "  See- 
ing that  thou  comest  into  such  scorn  by  the  companionship 


The  New  Life.  41 


of  this  lady,  wherefore  seekest  thou  to  behold  her  ?     If  she 
should  ask  thee  this  thing,  what  answer  couldst  thou  make 
unto  her?  yea,   even  though  thou  wert   master  of  all  thy 
faculties,  and  in  no  way  hindered  from  answering."     Unto 
the  which,  another  very  humble  thought  said  in  reply  :  "  If        /   / 
I  were  master  of  all  my  faculties,  and  in  no  way  hindered     // 
from  answering,  I  would  telj  her  that  aa^soonerjdo  XJiTiag.eV^ 
to  myself  her  jiiarvellousjbgauty  thanlF^i  jjo^ssed  ^vvjth 
the  "3g5ÌTg'"tobehol3'nìéivthe  which  j;^  pf  qn  grTat  strènptji 
that  It  kills  ana  crestroys  in  my  mpmnry  ^H  tho*^^  thinnrg 
which  n^TgTTf  oppose  it  ;  and  it  is  therefore  that  the  great 
Snguishl    have    endured    thereby   is    yet    not    enough   to 
restrain    me    from    seeking    to    behold    her."     And    then, 
because  of  these  thoughts,  I  resolved  to  write   somewhat, 
wherein,  having  pleaded  mine  excuse,  I  should  tell  her  of  A/ 
what   I   felt    in   her   presence.     Whereupon    I   wrote    thist       . 
sonnet  :  — 


The  thoughts  are  broken  in  my  memor^       . 

Thou  lovely  Joy,  whene'er  I  see  thvi^g  ; 

When  thon  art  near  mp,  T  hvp  fJU^  npTTp  gp^rP, 
Often  repeating,  "  If  death  irk  thee,  fly." 
My  face  shows  my  heart's  color,  verily. 

Which,  fainting,  seeks  for  any  leaning-place 

Till,  in  the  drunken  terror  of  disgrace, 
The  very  stones  seem  to  be  shrieking,  "  Die  !  " 
It  were  a  grievous  sin,  if  one  should  not 

Strive  then  to  comfort  my  bewildered  mind 
(Though  merely  with  a  simple  pitying) 
For  the  great  anguish  which  thy  scorn  has  wrought 

In  the  dead  sight  o'  the  eyes  grown  nearly  blind, 
Which  look  for  death  as  for  a  blessed  thing. 

This  so?met  is  divided  ijito  two  parts.  Li  the  first^  I 
tell  the  cause  ivhy  I  abstain  not  fro7n  comi?ig  to  this  lady. 
T?i  the  second,  I  tell  what  befalls  me  through  coming  to  her  ; 
a7id  this  part  begins  here,  "  When  thou  art  near."  Aiid 
also  this  secoftd  part  divides  into  five  distÌ7ict  statemejits. 
Tor  J  in  the  first,  I  say  what  Love,  coiuiselled  by  Reaso?i, 
tells  me  when  I  am  near  the  Lady.  Ln  the  second,  T  set 
forth  the  state  of  my  hea?'t  by  the  exa?nple  of  the  face.  Tn 
the  third,  T  say  how  all  g?'ound  of  trust  fails  ine.  L?i  the 
fourth,  L  say  that  he  sins  ivho  shows  not  pity  of  me,  which 
luould  give  me  S07ne  coinfort.     Ln  the  last,  L  say  7vhy  people 


42  Dmite  AligJneri. 


should  take  pity  ;  namely,  for  the  piteous  look  which  comes 
into  mine  eyes  ;  which  piteous  look  is  destroyed,  that  is,  ap- 
peareth  fiot  unto  others,  through  the  jeering  of  this  lady,  who 
draws  to  the  like  action  those  who  peradventure  would  see 
this  piteousness.  The  second  part  begins  here,  "  My  face 
shows  ;^'  the  third,  '•^  Till,  in  the  drunken  terror;^'  the 
fou7'th,  ^^  It  were  a  grievous  sin;  "  the  fifth,  "  For  the  great 
anguish  y 

Thereafter,  this  sonnet  bred  in  me  desire  to  write  down 
in  verse  four  other  things  touching  my  condition,  the  which 
things  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  not  yet  made  manifest. 
^*^ll^  fj^'*^^  among  f|ipc;p  was  the  ^'ief  that  possessed  me  very 
often,  rememhenn.o-  the  st.ranp-pr,p<;^  wjiirh  J. nvp  wrnnght  in 
me  •}'\\\e.  serond  wns^  ho^y  T.nvp  many  finips  nss^ilpH  me  SO 
:s:nH(-1pn1v    n|-|r|    vvi'th    SUch    StrPpgHi     that    T    had    y\(^    nthpr    IiTp 

remaining  except  a  thouo-ht  which  spak<"  of  my  lorly  •  ^g 
■^jJiird  was,  how,  \\i\\ew  TiPV^  ^H  hnttìp  with  me  in  this_ 
\viv;p,  T  wnnjd  rise  up  all  rolorlf'^'^i  if  «^n  T  might  see  rny 
bdy^  conceivinp;  that  the  ^jght  of^her  would  defend  me 
against  the  assault  of  L^ye,  nnd  a1tngpt;her  forg^etting 
that  which  her  presence  hrnnaht  nntn  xx\é  *f-^ry(\  the  fnnrtk 
was^  hnw^  when  T  <;aw  her/  the  sight  not  only  defende(^ 
mp  not,  hnt  took  awav  the  litfje  life  tHai-  rpm^mpd  j-n 
J3l£-  And  I  said  these  four  things  in  a  sonnet,  which  is 
this  :  — 

At  whiles  (yea  oftentimes)  I  muse  over 
The  quality  of  anguish  that  is  mine 
Through  Love  :  then  pity  makes  my  voice  to  pine, 
Saying,  "  Is  any  else  thus,  anywhere  ?  " 
Love  smiteth  me,  whose  strength  is  ill  to  bear  ; 

—_ Except  one  thought:  and  that,  because  't  is  thine, 
Leaves  not  the  body  but  abideth  there. 
And  then  if  I,  whom  other  aid  forsook, 
Would  aid  myself,  and  innocent  of  art 

Would  fain  have  sight  of  thee  as  a  last  hope, 
No  sooner  do  I  lift  mine  eyes  to  look 

Than  the  blood  seems  as  shaken  from  my  heart, 
And  all  my  pulses  beat  at  once  and  stop. 


é^ 


This  sofinet  is  divided  into  four  parts,  four  things  being 
therein  narrated  ;  and  as  these  are  set  forth  above,  I  only 
proceed  to  distinguish  the  parts  by  their  begi?mings.      Where- 


The  New  Life,  43 


fore  I  say  that  the  second  part  begins^  "  Love  smiteth  me  ;^^ 
the  thirds  ^^  A?id  theit  if  L ;''  the  fourth^  ^^  No  sooner  do  I 
lift:' 
-If...  After  I  had  written  these  last  three  sonnets,  wherein  I 
'-^spake  unto  my  lady,  telHng  her  almost  the  whole  of  my  con- 
dition, it  seemed  to  me  that  I  should  be  silent,  having  said 
enough  concerning  myself.  But  albeit  I  spake  not  to  her 
again,  yet  it  behoved  me  afterward  to  write  of  another 
matter,  more  noble  than  the  foregoing.  And  for  that  the 
occasion  of  what  I  then  wrote  may  be  found  pleasant  in  the 
hearing,  I  will  relate  it  as  briefly  as  I  may. 

Through  the  sore  change  in  mine  aspect,  the  secret  of  my 
heart  was  now  understood  of  many.  Which  thing  being 
thus,  there  came  a  day  when  certain  ladies  to  whom  it  was 
well  known  (they  having  been  with  me  at  divers  times  in 
my  trouble)  were  met  together  for  the  pleasure  of  gentle 
company.  And  as  I  was  going  that  way  by  chance  (but  I 
think  rather  by  the  will  of  fortune),  I  heard  one  of  them  call 
unto  me,  and  she  that  called  was  a  lady  of  very  sweet 
speech.  And  when  I  had  come  close  up  with  them,  and  per- 
ceived that  they  had  not  among  them  mine  excellent  lady, 
[  was  reassured  ;  and  saluted  them,  asking  of  their  pleasure. 
The  ladies  were  many  ;  divers  of  whom  were  laughing  one 
to  another,  while  divers  gazed  at  me  as  though  I  should 
speak  anon.  But  when  I  still  spake  not,  one  of  them,  who 
before  had  been  talking  with  another,  addressed  me  by  my 
name,  saying,  "  lo  what  end  lo  vest  thou  this  lady,  seeing 
that  thou  canst  not  support  her  presence  ?  Now  tell  us  this 
thing,  that  we  may  know  it  :  for  certainly  the  end  of  such  a 
love  must  be  worthy  of  knowledge."  And  when  she  had 
spoken  these  words,  not  she  only,  but  all  they  that  were 
with  he/,  began  to  observe  me,  waiting  for  my  reply. 
Whereupon  I  said  thus  unto  them  :  "  Ladies^jhe^^end-jaod 
aim  of  mj;  Love  was  but  the  salutation  of  that  lady^of  wliom 
T'Conceive  that  ye  are  speaking;  whereiJQ- alone  I  found  that 
beatitude  which  is  the  goal  of  desire.  And  now  that  it  hath 
pleased  her  to  deny  me  this,  Love,  my  Master,  of  his  great 
goodness,  hath  placed  all  my  beatitude  there  where  my  hope 
will  not  fail  me."  Then  those  ladies  began  to  talk  closely 
together  ;  and  as  I  have  seen  snow  fall  among  the  rain,  so 
was  their  talk  mingled  with  sighs.  But  after  a  little,  that 
lady  who  had  been  the  first  to  dddress  me,  addressed  me 


44  Dante  Alighieri. 


again  in  these  words  :  "  We  pray  thee  that  thou  wilt  tell  us 
whejein.abideth  this  tjiy  beatitude."  And  answering,  I  said 
but  thus  much  :  "  In  those  words  that  do  praise  my  lady." 
To  the  which  she  rejoined  :  "  If  tliy  speech  were  true,  those 
■  words  that  thou  didst  write  concerning  thy  condition  would 
have  been  written  with  another  intent." 

Then  I,  being  almost  put  to  shame  because  of  her  answer, 
went  out  from  among  them  ;  and  as  I  walked,  I  said  within 
myself:  "Seeing  that  there  is  so  much  beatitude  in  those 
words  which  do  praise  my  lady,  wherefore  hath  my  speech 
of  her  been  different?  "  And  then  I  resolved  that  thencefor- 
Ji^ward  I  would  choose  for  thejLheme  of  my  writings  only  the 
praise  oTthislnost  gracious  being.  But  when  I  had  thought 
exceedingly,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  taken  to  myself  a 
theme  which  was  much  too  lofty,  so  that  I  dared  not  begin  ; 
and  I  remained  during  several  days  in  the  desire  of  speak- 

ing,  and  the  fear  of  beginning.     After  which  it  happened,  as 

TT^y^'Ty^  passed  one  day  along  a  path  which  lay  beside  a  stream  of 
r  Mr'-  very  clear  w^ater,  that  there  came  upon  me  a  great  desire  to 
say  somewhat  in  rhyme  :  but  when  I  began  thinking  how  I 
should  say  it,  methought  that  to  speak  of  her  were  unseemly, 
unless  I  spoke  to  other  ladies  in  the  second  person  ;  which 
is  to  say,  not  to  any  other  ladies,  but  only  to  such  as  are  so 
\  called  because  they  are  gentle,  let  alone  for  mere  woman- 
hood.. Whereupon  I  declare  thàf  iiiy'tongue  spake  as  though 
by  its  own  impulse,  and  said,  "  Ladies  that  have  intelhgence 
in  love."  These  words  I  laid  up  in  my  mind  with  great 
gladness,  conceiving  to  take  them  as  my  commencement. 
Wherefore,  having  returned  to  the  city  I  spake  of,  and  con- 
sidered thereof  during  certain  days,  I  began  a  poem  with 
this  beginning,  constructed  in  the  mode  which  will  be  seen 
below  in  its  division.     The  poem  begins  here  :  — 

Ladies  that  have  intelligence  in  love, 

Of  mine  own  lady  I  would  speak  with  you  ; 
Not  that  I  hope  to  count  her  praises  through, 

But  telling  what  I  may,  to  ease  my  mind. 
And  I  declare  that  when  I  speak  thereof, 
Love  sheds  such  perfect  sweetness  over  me 
That  if  my  courage  failed  not,  certainly 

To  him  my  listeners  must  be  all  resign'd. 

Wherefore  I  will  not  speak  in  such  large  kind 
That  mine  own  speech  should  foil  me,  which  were  base  ; 


TJie  New  Life.  45 


But  only  will  discourse  of  her  high  grace 

In  these  poor  words,  the  best  that  I  can  find, 
With  you  alone,  dear  dames  and  damozels  : 
'Twere  ill  to  speak  thereof  with  any  else. 

An  Angel,  of  his  blessed  knowledge,  saith 

To  God  :  "  Lord,  in  the  world  that  Thou  hast  made, 
A  miracle  in  action  is  displav'd|. 

By  reason  of  a  soul  whose  splendors  fare 
Even  hither  :  and  since  Heaven  requireth 
Nought  saving  her,  for  her  it  prayeth  Thee, 
Thy  Saints  crying  aloud  continually." 
Yet  Pity  still  defends  our  earthly  share 
In  that  sweet  soul  ;  God  answering  thus  the  prayer. 
"  My  well-beloved,  suffer  that  in  peace 
Your  hope  remain,  while  so  My  pleasure  is. 

There  where  one  dwells  who  dreads  the  loss  of  her  : 
And  who  in  Hell  unto  the  doomed  shall  say, 
'  I  have  looked  on  that  for  which  God's  chosen  pray.'  " 

My  lady  is  desired  in  the  high  Heaven  : 
Wherefore,  it  now  behoveth  me  to  tell. 
Saying  :  Let  any  maid  that  would  be  well 

Esteemed  keep  with  her  :  for  as  she  goes  by^ 
^ntO  foul  hearts  a  ripalhly  r1ii11  m  c\r\Mevi 
Py  Tr^^^Pf  ^^^^^  makp^  ill  t]-fonor]it  tr)  ppp^h  t^f^'fì  - 
While  anv  who  endures  to  craze  on  her 

Mii'^t  piflipr  hp  pnnnhled^  nr  else  fli>- 

When  one  deserving  to  be  raised  so  high 
Is  found,  't  is  then  her  power  attains  its  proof, 
Making  his  heart  strong  for  his  soul's  behoof 

With  the  full  strength  of  meek  humility. 
Also  this  virtue  owns  she,  by  God's  will  : 
Who  speaks  with  her  can  never  come  to  ill. 

Love  saith  concerning  her  :  "  How  chanceth  it 

That  flesh,  which  is  of  clust,  should  be  thus  pure  ?  " 
Then,  gazing  always,  he  makes  oath  :  "  Forsure. 
This, is  a.  creature  of  God  til]  '-[r^w  unknown-" 
She  hath  that  paleness  of  the  pearl  that 's  fit 
Ina  fair  woman,  so  much  and  not  more  ; 
She  is  as  high  as  Nature's  skill  can  soar  ; 
^Beauty  is  tried  by  her  comparison- 
Whatever  her  sweet  eyes  are  turned  upon. 
Spirits  of  love  do  issue  thence  in  flame, 
Which  through  their  eyes  who  then  may  look  on  them 

Pierce  to  the  heart's  deep  chamber  every  one. 
And  in  her  smile  Love's  image  you  may  see  ; 
Whence  none  can  gaze  upon  her  steadfastly. 


4.6  Dante  Alighieri. 


Dear  Song,  I  know  thou  wilt  hold  gentle  speech 
With  many  ladies,  when  I  send  thee  forth  : 
Wherefore  (being  mindful  that  thou  hadst  thy  birth 

From  Love,  and  art  a  modest,  simple  child) 
Whomso  thou  meetest,  say  thou  this  to  each  : 
"  Give  me  good  speed  !     To  her  I  wend  along 
In  whose  much  strength  my  weakness  is  made  strong." 

And  if,  i'  the  end,  thou  wouldst  not  be  beguiled 

.Of  all  thy  labor,  seek  not  the  defiled 
Anri  common  sort  ;  but  rath_er_choose  to  be 
Where  man  and  woman  dwell  in  courtesy. 

So  to  the  road  thou  shalt  be  reconcileci, 
And  find  the  lady,  and  with  the  lady,  Love. 
Commend  thou  me  to  each,  as  doth  behove. 

This  poem,  that  it  may  be  better  understood,  I  will  divide 
more  subtly  tliaJi  the  others  preceding  ;  and  therefore  I  will 
make  three  parts  of  it.  The  first  part  is  a  proem  to  the  words 
following.  The  second  is  the  matter  treated  of.  The  third 
is.  as  it  were,  a  handmaid  to  the  preceding  words.  The 
second  begins  here,  "  An  Angel  ;  "  the  third  here,  "  Dear 
Song,  I  know. ^^  The  first  part  is  divided  if  ito  four.  Li  the 
first,  I  say  to  whom  I  niean  to  speak  of  my  Lady,  and  where- 
fore I  will  so  speak.  In  the  second,  I  say  zvhat  she  appears 
to  inyself  to  be  when  I  refiect  upon  her  excelleiice^  and  what  I 
would  utter  if  I  lost  not  courage.  In  the  third,  I  say  what  it 
is  I  purpose  to  speak  so  as  not  to  bé  impeded  by  fainthearted- 
ness. In  the  fourth,  repeating  to  whom  I  purpose  speaking, 
I  tell  the  reason  why  I  speak  to  them.  The  secoJid  begins 
here,  '^  And  I  declare ;^^  the  third  here,  "  Whe^-efore  I  will 
not  speak  ;^'  the  fourth  he?^e,  "  With  you  alone.'''  Then, 
when  I  say  "  An  angel ^'  I  begin  treating  of  this  lady  :  and 
this  part  is  divided  into  two.  In  the  first,  I  tell  ivhat  is 
understood  of  her  in  heaven.  In  the  second,  I  tell  what  is 
understood  of  her  on  earth  :  hej-e,  "  My  lady  is  desired.'' 
This  second  part  is  divided  into  two  ;  for,  in  the  first,  I  speak 
of  her  as  regards  the  nobleness  of  her  soul,  relating  some  of 
her  virtues  proceeding  from  her  soul  ;  in  the  second,  I  speak 
of  her  as  regards  the  nobleness  of  her  body,  narrating  some  of 
her  beauties  :  here,  "  love  saith  concerning  her.''  ■  This  seco?id 
part  is  divided  into  two,  for,  in  the  first,  I  speak  of  certai?i 
beauties  7vhich  belong  to  the  whole  perso?i  ;  in  the  second,  I 
speak  of  certaiJi  beauties  which  belong  to  a  distinct  pai't  of  the 
person  :  here,  "  Whatever  her  sweet  eyes."     This  second  part 


The  New  Life.  47 


is  divided  into  two  ;  for,  in  the  one,  I  speak  of  the  eyes,  which 
are  the  beginning  of  hw  e  ;  in  the  second,  I  speak  of  the  mouth, 
7idiich  is  the  end  of  love.  And  that  every  vicious  thought 
may  be  discarded  herefrom,  let  the  reader  remetnber  that  it  is  \ 
above  turitten  that  the  greeting  of  this  lady,  which  was  an  act 
of  her  mouth,  was  the  goal  of  my  desires,  zvhile  I  coitld  receive 
it.  Then,  7vheji  I  say,  ''  Dear  Song,  I  know,''  I  add  a  stanza 
as  it  were  handmaid  to  the  others,  ivherein  I  say  what  I 
desire  from  this  my  poem.  And  because  this  last  part  is  easy 
to  understand,  I  trouble  not  myself  with  more  divisions.  I 
say,  i?ideed,  that  the  further  to  ope?i  the  meaning  of  this  poem, 
more  7ninute  divisions  ought  to  be  used;  but  nevertheless  he 
ivho  is  not  of  wit  enough  to  imderstand  it  by  these  which  have 
been  already  77iade  is  welcome  to  leave  it  alo7ie  ;  for  certes,  I 
fear  I  have  C07nmu7iicated  its  se7ise  to  too  fna7iy  by  these prese7tt 
divisions,  if  it  so  happe7ied  that  7na7iy  should  hear  it. 

When  this  song  was  a  httle  gone  abroad,  a  certain  one  of 
my  friends,  hearing  the  same,  was  pleased  to  question  me, 
that  I  should  tell  him  what  thing  love  is  ;  it  may  be,  conceiv- 
ing from  the  words  thus  heard  a  hope  of  me  beyond  my 
desert.  Wherefore  I,  thinking  that  after  such  discourse  it 
were  well  to  say  somewhat  of  the  nature  of  Love,  and  also  in 
accordance  with  my  friend's  desire,  proposed  to  myself  to 
write  certain  words  in  the  which  I  should  treat  of  this  argu- 
ment.    And  the  sonnet  that  I  then  made  is  this  :  — 

^*   LQYE..and  the  geiitle...heart  are  one  samg^ihing, 
Even  as  the  wise  man  1  in  his  ditty  saith  : 

Each,  of  itself,  would  be  such  life  in  deatl/  /    ,^»j  jtjAjJj àk>^ 
As  rational  soul  bereft  of  reasoning.       /  ^^^^^^^ SjkAtjuJjfi/^^'^^^'^^ 
'J  is  Nature  makes  them  when  she  loves  :  a  ^'^^^^\j^\^ 

Love  is,  whose  palace  where  he  sojourneth       7^V_a^JL^  ^s-^ '^ 
/         Is  called  the  Heart  ;  there  draws  he  quiet  breath  v  I    ^ 

\V  At  first,  with  brief  or  longer  slumbering.      ^ùèjkIu     dA-*-^-*-*^ 

rhen  b(g^utv  seen  in  virtuous  womankind     ^^^^^-"^^^ _^^  iaèJU^t^ 
WillTTnrtre  the  eyes  desire,  and  through  the  ^^^^\}jJ^^^m^^i,4jÌJL4-<J 


"é, 


Send  the  desiring  of  the  eyes  again  ;  ^  ^  *'    mq     mjL. 

t.       " 
And  women  feel  the  same  for  worthy  men. 


^Vhere  often  it  abides  so  long  enshrin'd  I/y^t-* 

jrThat  Love  at  length  out  of  his  sleep  will  start 


'This  so7met  is  divided  Ì7tto  tivo  parts.    I7i  the  first,  I  speak 
"ff  hÌ77i  accordÌ7ig  to  his  po7ver.     I7i  the  seco7id,  I  speak  of  hÌ77i 

1  Guido  Guinicelli,  in  the  canzone  which  begins,  "  Within  the  gentle  heart 
Love  shelters  him."     (See  Part  II.  page  1S7.) 


Dante  Alighieri. 


according  as  kis  power  translates  itself  into  act.  27ie  second 
part  begins  here,  ^^  Then  beauty  seen.''  The  first  is  divided 
into  two.  In  thefi?'st,  I  say  in  what  su  Inject  this  power  exists. 
In  the  second,  I  say  how  this  subject  and  this  power  a J^e  pro- 
duced together.,  and  how  the  one  regards  the  other,  as  for7n 
does  matter.  The  second  begins  here,  ''  '2' is  Nature.''  After- 
wards when  I  say,  "  The?t  beauty  seen  in  virtuous  woma7i- 
kind,"  I  say  how  this  power  translates  itself  into  act  ;  and, 
first,  how  it  so  translates  itself  in  a  man,  then  how  it  so 
translates  itself  in  a  woman  :  here,  "  And  women  feel." 

Having  treated  of  love  in  the  foregoing,  it  appeared  to  me 
that  I  should  also  say  something  in  praise  of  my  lady,  where- 
in it  might  be  set  forth  how  love  manifested  itself  when  pro- 
duced by  her  :  and  how  not  only  she  coulH  nwvnlcpn  it  where 
it  slept,  but  where  it  was  not  she  rnnlH  n-iarvpllmmly  create  it. 
To  the  which  end  I  wrote  another  sonnet  ;   and  it  is  this  : 

My  lady  carries  love  within  her  eyes  ; 
All  that  she  looks  on  is  made  pl?asanter  ; 
<^    s     Upon  her  path  men  tm-n  to  gaze  at  her; 
o|Jj^  Uj^Jt^^    \  He  whom  she  greeteth  feels  his  heart  to  rise, 
■/  And  ( 


L.    Ana  droops  histroubled  visao;e,  full  ot  sighs, 
Anri  nf  hi^  fyj]  ^ipnrt  js  then  aware..: 
,    Hate  loves,  and  pride  becomes  a  worshipper, 
O  women,  help  to  praise  her  in  somewise. 
Humbleness,  and  the  hope  that  hopeth  well. 
By  speech  of  hers  into  the  mind  are  brought, 
And  who  beholds  is  blessed  oftenwhiles. 
The  look  slfe  hath  when  she  a  little  smiles 
Cannot  be  said,  nor  holden  in  the  thought  ; 
'T  is  such  a  new  and  gracious  miracle. 

This  somiet  has  three  sections.  "  In  the  first,  I  say  how  this 
lady  brings  this  power  into  action  by  those  7nost  noble  features, 
her  eyes  ;  and,  in  the  third,  I  say  this  sa?ne  as  to  that  most 
noble  feature,  her  7iiouth.  A7id  between  these  two  sectio7is  is 
a  little  section,  7vhich  asks,  as  it  7ve7'e.,  help  for  the  previous 
section  and  the  subseque/it  ;  a7id  it  begins  here,  yO  ivo77ien, 
help."  The  third  begi7is  here,  ''  IIu7nble7iess."c^7he  first  is 
divided  Ì7ito  th7'ee  ;  for,  in  the  first,  I  say  how  she  7uith  power 

'^nahp'i  nnli/P  fhnf  li^ihii-h   ^he  looks  2(p0n  ;    and   t/llS    IS    aS   77lUCh 

j2'\  fa  'iay  that  shb-  iwangs  IjOìv,  m  p\}K'cr,UIùther^liere  he  is 
7iot._  l7i  the  second,  I  say  how  she  b7'Ì7igs  Love,  t7i  act,  Ì7ito 
the  hearts  of  all  those  whom  she  sees.     Li  the  third,  I  tell 


The  New  Life.  49 


what  she  afterwards ,  with  virtue^  operates  upon  their  hearts. 
The  seco7id  begins.  "  Up07i  her  path  ;  "  the  third,  "  He  lohom 
she  greeteth.'-''  Then,  whe?t  I  say,  "  O  7i>o?nen,  help,''  I  inti- 
mate to  7vhom  it  is  my  intent io7i  to  speak,  calling  on  wome7i  to 
help  me  to  honor  her.  Then,  when  I  say,  ^''Humbleness,''  I 
say  that  saine  which  is  said  i?i  the  first  part,  regardi7ig  two 
acts  of  her  7710 nth,  07ie  whereof  is  her  77iost  sweet  speech,  a7id 
the  other  her  7narvellous  S7nile.  07ily,  I  say  7iot  of  this  last 
how  it  operates  upo7i  the  hearts  of  others,  because  me77iory 
cannot  retaÌ7i  this  S77iile^  7ior  its  operatio7i.  -^ 

^  '  Not  many  days  after  this  (it  being  the  will  of  the  most 
High  God,  who  also  from  Himself  put  not  away  death),  the 
father  of  wonderful  Beatrice,  going  out  of  this  life,  passed 
certainly  into  glory.  Thereby  it  happened,  as  of  very  sooth 
it  might  not  be  otherwise,  that  this  lady  was  made  full  of  the 
bitterness  of  grief  :  seeing  that  such  a  parting  is  very  grievous 
unto  those  friends  who  are  left,  and  that  no  other  friendship 
is  hke  to  that  between  a  good  parent  and  a  good  child  ;  and 

.— -iurthermore  considering  that  this  lady  was  good  in  the 
supreme  degree,  and  her  father  (as  by  many  it  hath  been 
truly  averred)  of  exceeding  goodness.  And  because  it  is 
the  usage  of  that  city  that  men  meet  with  men  in  such  a 
grief,  and  women  with  women,  certain  ladies  of  her  compan- 
ionship gathered  themselves  unto  Beatrice,  where  she  kept 
alone  in  her  weeping  :  and  as  they  passed  in  and  out,  I 
could  hear  them  speak  concerning  her,  how  she  wept.  At 
length  two  of  them  went  by  me,  who  said  :  "  Certainly  she 
grieveth  in  such  sort  that  one  might  die  for  pity,  beholding 
her."  Then,  feeling  the  tears  upon  my  face,  I  put  up  my 
hands  to  hide  them  :  and  had  it  not  been  that  I  hoped  to 
/kear  more  concerning  her  (seeing  that  where  I  sat,  her 
/friends  passed  continually  in  and  out),  I  should  assuredly 

È  ave  gone  thence  to  be  alone,  when  I  felt  the  tears  come, 
lut  as  I  still  sat  in  that  place,  certain  ladies  again  passed 
pear  me,  who  were  saying  among  themselves  :  "  Which  of 
|us  shall  be  joyful  any  more,  who  have  listened  to  this  lady  in 

(her  piteous  sorrow?"  And  there  were  others  who  said  as 
they  went  by  me  :  "  He  that  sitteth  here  could  not  weep 
more  if  he  had  beheld  her  as  we  have  beheld  her;"  and 
I  again  :  *'  He  is  so  altered  that  he  seemeth  not  as  himself" 
IJAnd  still  as  the  ladies  passed  to  and  fro,  I  could  heai*  them 
■^peak  after  this  fashion  of  her  and  of  me. 


50  Dante  Alighieri. 


Wherefore  afterwards,  having  considered  and  perceiving 
that  there  was  herein  matter  for  poesy,  I  resolved  that  I 
would  write  certain  rhymes  in  the  which  should  be  contained 
all  that  those  ladies  had  said.  And  because  I  would  willingly 
have  spoken  to  them  if  it  had  not  been  for  discreetness,  I 
made  in  my  rhymes  as  though  I  had  spoken  and  they  had 
answered  me.  Ajid  thereof  I  wrote  two  sonnets  ;  in  the  first 
of  which  I  addressed  them  as  I  would  fain  have  done  ;  and 
in  the  second  related  their  answer,  using  the  speech  that 
I  had  heard  from  them,  as  though  it  had  been  spoken  unto 
myself.     And  the  sonnets  are  these  :  — 


You  that  thus  wear  a  modest  countenance 

With  lids  weigh 'd  down  by  the  heart's  heaviness, 
Whence  come  you,  that  among  you  every  face 

Appears  the  same,  for  its  pale  troubled  glance  ? 

Have  you  beheld  my  lady's  face,  perchance, 

Bow'd  with  the  grief  that  Love  makes  full  of  grace  ? 
Say  now,  "  This  thing  is  thus  ;  "  as  my  heart  says, 

Marking  your  grave  and  sorrowful  advance. 

And  if  indeed  you  come  from  where  she  sighs 

And  mourns,  may  it  please  you  (for  his  heart's  relief) 
To  tell  how  it  fares  with  her  unto  him 

Who  knows  that  you  have  wept,  seeing  your  eyes, 
And  is  so  grieved  with  looking  on  your  grief 

That  his  heart  trembles  and  his  sight  grows  dim. 

This  sonnet  is  divided  into  two  parts.  Iji  the  first,  I  call 
and  ask  these  ladies  whether  they  C07fie  front  her,  telling  thein 
that  I  thiftk  they  do,  because  they  return  the  nobler.  In  the 
seco?id,  I  pray  them  to  tell  me  of  her  ;  and  the  second  begins 
here,  '  '  And  If  indeed.  '  ' 

II. 

Canst  thou  indeed  be  he  that  still  would  sing 

Of  our  dear  lady  unto  none  but  us  ? 

For  though  thy  voice  confirms  that  it  is  thus. 
Thy  visage  might  another  witness  bring. 
And  wherefore  is  thy  grief  so  sore  a  thing 

That  grieving  thou  mak'st  others  dolorous  ? 

Hast  thou  too  seen  her  weep,  that  thou  from  us 
Canst  not  conceal  thine  inward  sorrowing  ? 


TJie  New  Life.  51 


Nay,  leave  our  woe  to  us  :  let  us  alone  : 

'T  were  sin  if  one  should  strive  to  soothe  our  woe, 
For  in  her  weeping  we  have  heard  her  speak  : 
Also  her  look  's  so  full  of  her  heart's  moan 
That  they  who  should  behold  her,  looking  so, 
Must  fall  aswoon,  feeling  all  life  grow  weak. 

This  sonnet  has  foiw  parts,  as  the  ladies  in  whose  person  I 
reply  had  four  forins  of  answer.  And,  because  these  are 
sufficiently  shown  above,  I  stay  fiot  to  explain  the  purport  of 
the  parts,  and  therefore  I  only  discrÌ7ninate  them.  The  seco  fid 
begins  here,  ''And  wherefore  is  thy  grief;''  the  third  here, 
"Nay,  leave  our  woe;  "  the  fourth,  "Also  her  look.'" 

A  few  days  after  this,  my  body  became  afflicted  with  a^ 
painful  infirmity,  whereby  I  suffered  bitter  anguish  for  many 
days,  which  at  last  brought  me  unto  such  weakness  that  I 
could  no  longer  move.  And  I  remember  that  on  the  ninth 
day,  being  overcome  with  intolerable  pain,  a  thought  came 
into  my  mind  concerning  my  lady  :  but  when  it  had  a  little 
nourished  this  thought,  my  mind  returned  to  its  brooding 
over  mine  enfeebled  body.  And  then  perceiving  how  frail 
a  thing  life  is,  even  though  health  keep  with  it,  the  matter 
seemed  to  me  so  pitiful  that  I  could  not  choose  but  weep  ; 
and  weeping  I  said  within  myself:  "Certainly  it  must  some 
time  come  to  pass  that  the  very  gentle  Beatrice  will  die." 
Then,  feeling  bewildered,  I  closed  mine  eyes  ;  and  my  brain 
began  to  be  in  travail  as  the  brain  of  one  frantic,  and  to  have 
such  imaginations  as  here  follow. 

And  at  the  first,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  saw  certain  faces 
of  women  with  their  hair  loosened,  which  called  out  to  me, 
''  Thou  shalt  surely  die  ;  "  after  the  which,  other  terrible  and 
unknown  appearances  said  unto  me,  "Thou  art  dead."  At 
length,  as  my  fantasy  held  on  in  its  wanderings,  I  came  to 
be  I  knew  not  where,  and  to  behold  a  throng  of  dishevelled 
ladies  wonderfully  sad,  who  kept  going  hither  and  thither 
weeping.  Then  the  sun  went  out,  so  that  the  stars  showed 
themselves,  and  they  were  of  such  a  color  that  I  knew  they 
must  be  weeping  :  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  birds  fell 
dead  out  of  the  sky,  and  that  there  were  great  earthquakes. 
With  that,  while  I  wondered  in  my  trance,  and  was  filled 
with  a  grievous  fear,  I  conceived  that  a  certain  friend  came 
unto  me  and  said:  "Hast  thou  not  heard?  She  that  was 
thine  excellent  lady  hath  been  taken  out  of  life."     Then  I 


52 


Dante  AHMeri. 


began  to  weep  very  piteously  ;  and  not  only  in  mine  imagina- 
tion, but  with  mine  eyes,  which  were  wet  with  tears.  And  I 
seemed  to  look  towards  Heaven,  and  to  behold  a  multitude 
of  angels  who  were  returning  upwards,  having  before  them 
an  exceedingly  white  cloud  :  and  these  angels  were  singing 
together  gloriously,  and  the  words  of  their  song  were  these  : 
"  Osa/ma  in  excels  is  ;  "  and  there  was  no  more  that  I  heard. 
Then  my  heart  that  was  so  full  of  love  said  unto  me  :  "  It  is 
true  that  our  lady  lieth  dead  ;  "  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  I 
went  to  look  upon  the  body  wherein  that  blessed  and  most 
noble  spirit  had  had  its  abiding-place.  And  so  strong  was 
this  idle  imagining,  that  it  made  me  to  behold  my  lady  in 
death  ;  whose  head  certain  ladies  seemed  to  be  covering  with 
a  white  veil  ;  and  who  was  so  humble  of  her  aspect  that  it 
was  as  though  she  had  said,  "  I  have  attained  to  look  on  the 
beginning  of  peace."  And  therewithal  I  came  unto  such 
humility  by  the  sight  of  her,  that  I  cried  out  upon  Death, 
saying  :  "  Now  come  unto  me,  and  be  not  bitter  against  me 
any  longer  :  surely,  there  where  thou  hast  been,  thou  hast 
learned  gentleness.  Wherefore  come  now  unto  me  who  do 
greatly  desire  thee  :  seest  thou  not  that  I  wear  thy  color 
already?"  And  when  I  had  seen  all  those  offices  performed 
that  are  fitting  to  be  done  unto  the  dead,  it  seemed  to  me 
that  I  went  back  unto  mine  own  chamber,  and  looked  up 
towards  Heaven.  And  so  strong  was  my  fantasy  that  I 
wept  again  in  very  truth,  and  said  with  my  true  voice  :  "  O 
excellent  soul  !  how  blessed  is  he  that  now  looketh  upon 
thee  !  " 

And  as  I  said  these  words,  with  a  painful  anguish  of  sob- 
bing and  another  prayer  unto  Death,  a  young  and  gentle 
lady,  who  had  been  standing  beside  me  where  I  lay,  conceiving 
that  I  wept  and  cried  out  because  of  the  pain  of  mine  in- 
firmity, was  taken  with  trembling  and  began  to  shed  tears. 
Whereby  other  ladies,  who  were  about  the  room,  becoming 
aware  of  my  discomfort  by  reason  of  the  moan  that  she  made 
(who  indeed  was  of  my  very  near  kindred),  led  her  away 
from  where  I  was,  and  then  set  themselves  to  awaken  me, 
thinking  that  I  dreamed,  and  saying  :  "  Sleep  no  longer,  and 
be  not  disquieted." 

Then,  by  their  words,  this  strong  imagination  was  brought 
suddenly  to  an  end,  at  the  moment  that  I  was  about  to  say, 
"O  Beatrice  !  peace  be  with  thee."     And  already  I  had  said, 


The  New  Life.  53 


"  O  Beatrice  !  "  when  being  aroused,  I  opened  mine  eyes, 
and  knew  that  it  had  been  a  deception.  But  albeit  I  had 
indeed  uttered  her  name,  yet  my  voice  was  so  broken  with 
sobs,  that  it  was  not  understood  by  these  ladies  ;  so  that  in 
spite  of  the  sore  shame  that  I  felt,  I  turned  towards  them  by 
Love's  counselling.  And  when  they  beheld  me,  they  began 
to  say,  "  He  seemeth  as  one  dead,"  and  to  whisper  among 
themselves,  "  Let  us  strive  if  we  may  not  comfort  him." 
Whereupon  they  spake  to  me  many  soothing  words,  and 
questioned  me  moreover  touching  the  cause  of  my  fear. 
Then  I,  being  somewhat  reassured,  and  having  perceived 
that  it  was  a  mere  fantasy,  said  unto  them,  "  This  thing  it 
was  that  made  me  afeard  ;  "  and  told  them  of  all  that  I  had 
seen,  from  the  beginning  even  unto  the  end,  but  without  once 
speaking  the  name  of  my  lady.  Also,  after  I  had  recovered 
from  my  sickness,  I  bethought  me  to  write  these  things  in 
rhyme  ;  deeming  it  a  lovely  thing  to  be  known.  Whereof  I 
wrote  this  poem  :  — 

A  VERY  pitiful  lady,  very  young, 

Exceeding  rich  in  human  sympathies, 

Stood  by,  what  time  I  clamor'd  upon  Death; 
And  at  the  wild  words  wandering  on  my  tongue 
And  at  the  piteous  look  within  mine  eyes 

She  was  affrighted,  that  sobs  choked  her  breath. 

So  by  her  weeping  where  I  lay  beneath, 
Some  other  gentle  ladies  came  to  know 
My  state,  and  made  her  go  : 
Afterward,  bending  themselves  over  me, 
One  said,  "  Awaken  thee  !  " 

And  one,  "  What  thing  thy  sleep  disquieteth  ?  " 
With  that,  my  soul  woke  up  from  its  eclipse, 
The  while  my  lady's  name  rose  to  my  lips  : 

But  utter'd  in  a  voice  so  sob-broken, 
So  feeble  with  the  agony  of  tears, 

That  I  alone  might  hear  it  in  my  heart  ; 

And  though  that  look  was  on  my  visage  then 
Which  he  who  is  ashamed  so  plainly  wears, 

Love  made  that  I  through  shame  held  not  apart, 
But  gazed  upon  them.     And  my  hue  was  such 

That  they  looked  at  each  other  and  thought  of  death  ; 

Saying  under  their  breath 

Most  tenderly,  "  O  let  us  comfort  him  :  " 

Then  unto  me  :  "  What  dream 


54  Dante  AligJiieri. 


Was  thine,  that  it  hath  shaken  thee  so  much  ?  " 
And  when  I  was  a  httle  comforted, 
"  This,  ladies,  was  the  dream  I  dreamt,"  I  said. 

"  I  was  a-thinking  how  h'fe  fails  with  us 
Suddenly  after  such  a  little  while  ; 

When  Love  sobb'd  in  lìiy  ^p^rt  w1-.;m-|  ]s  hjc;  ^^nmp. 
Whereby  my  spirit  wax'd  so  dolorous 
That  in  myself  I  said,  with  sick  recoil: 

'Yea,  to  my  lady  too  this  Death  must  come.' 

And  therewithal  such  a  bewilderment 
Possess'd  me,  that  I  shut  mine  eyes  for  peace  ; 
And  in  my  brain  did  cease 
Order  of  thought,  and  every  healthful  thing. 
Afterwards,  wandering 

Amid  a  swarm  of  doubts  that  came  and  went. 
Some  certain  women's  faces  hurried  by. 
And  shriek'd  to  me,  '  Thou  too  shalt  die,  shalt  die  !  ' 

"  Then  saw  I  many  broken  hinted  sights 
In  the  uncertain  state  I  stepp'd  into. 

Meseem'd  to  be  I  know  not  in  w^hat  place, 
Where  ladies  through  the  street,  like  mournful  lights. 
Ran  with  loose  hair,  and  eyes  that  frightened  you 

By  their  own  terror,  and  a  pale  amaze: 

The  while,  little  by  little,  as  I  thought. 
The  sun  ceased,  and  the  stars  began  to  gather. 
And  each  wept  at  the  other  ; 
And  birds  dropp'd  in  mid-flight  out  of  the  sky  ; 
And  earth  shook  suddenly. 

And  I  was  'ware  of  one,  hoarse  and  tired  out, 
Who  ask'd  of  me  :  '  Hast  thou  not  heard  it  said?  .  .  . 
Thy  lady,  she  that  was  so  fair,  is  dead." 

"  Then  lifting  up  mine  eyes,  as  the  tears  came, 
I  saw  the  Angels,  like  a  rain  of  manna, 

In  a  long  flight  flying  back  Heavenward  ; 
Having  a  little  cloud  in  front  of  them, 
After  the  which  they  went  and  said,  '  Hosanna  ;  ' 

And  if  they  had  said  more,  you  should  have  heard. 

Then  Love  said,  '  Now  shall  all  things  be  made  clear 
Come  and  behold  our  lady  where  she  lies.' 
These  'wildering  fantasies 
Then  carried  me  to  see  my  lady  dead. 
Even  as  I  there  was  led. 

Her  ladies  with  a  veil  were  covering  her; 
And  with  her  was  such  very  humbleness 
That  she  appeared  to  say,  '  I  am  at  peace.' 


The  Neiu  Life.  55 


"  And  I  became  so  humble  in  my  grief, 
Seeing  in  her  such  deep  humility, 

That  I  said  :  '  Death,  I  hold  thee  passing  good 
Henceforth,  and  a  most  gentle  sweet  relief, 

Since  my  dear  love  has  chosen  to  dwell  with  thee  : 

Pity,  not  hate,  is  thine,  well  understood. 

Lo  !   I  do  so  desire  to  see  thy  face 
That  I  am  like  as  one  who  nears  the  tomb  ; 
My  soul  entreats  thee,  Come.' 
Then  I  departed,  having  made  my  moan  ; 
And  when  I  was  alone 

I  said,  and  cast  my  eyes  to  the  High  Place  : 
'  Blessed  is  he,  fair  soul,  who  meets  thy  glance  !  ' 
.  .  .  Just  then  you  woke  me,  of  your  complaisance." 

This  poem  has  two  parts.  Li  the  first,  speaking  to  a 
person  undefined,  I  tell  how  I  was  ai'oused  from  a  vain 
fantasy  by  certain  ladies,  and  how  I  promised  them  to  tell 
what  it  was.  In  the  second,  I  say  how  I  told  them.  The 
second  part  begi?is  here,  "  I  was  a-thinkiiig?''  The  first  part 
divides  into  two.  hi  the  first,  I  tell  that  which  certain 
ladies,  and  which  one  singly,  did  and  said  because  of  my 
fantasy,  before  I  had  returned  into  my  right  senses.  In 
the  second,  I  tell  what  these  ladies  said  to  me  after  I  had 
left  off  this  wandering  :  and  it  begins  here,  "But  uttered  in 
a  voice. ''^  Then,  when  I  say,  "  I  was  a-ih  inking,'''  I  say  how 
I  told  them  this  7ny  imagination  ;  and  concerning  this  I  have 
two  parts.  In  the  first,  I  tell,  in  order,  this  imaginatio7i^ 
In  the  secoiid,  saying  at  what  tinie  they  called  me,  I  covertly 
thank  them  :  and  this  part  begins  here,  "  Just  then  you 
woke  meT 

After  this  empty  imagining,  it  happened  on  a  day,  as  I 
sat  thoughtful,  that  I  was  taken  with  such  a  strong  trembling 
at  the  heart,  that  it  could  not  have  been  otherwise  in  the 
presence  of  my  lady.  Whereupon  I  perceived  that  there 
was  an  appearance  of  Love  beside  me,  and  I  seemed  to  see 
him  coming  from  my  lady  ;  and  he  said,  not  aloud  but 
within  my  heart  :  "  |S[nw  tnkp  heed  ^\\■^\  fhnn  bless  the  dav„ 
when  I  entered  into  tjiee  ;  fnr  j|  i»^  fitfincr  thnf  tlinn  glinnld',]- 
d_9  so,"  And  with  thnt  mv  hf-vnrt  w.-m  <n  fn11  of  <r]nr1news. 
thnt  T  ronld   hnrdly  loelieve  it  to  be  of  very  \\\\\\^   piine  nwn_ 

A  short  while  after  these  words  which  my  heart  spoke  to 
me  with  the  tongue  of  Love,  I  saw  coming  towards  me  a 


56  Dante  Alighieri. 


certain  lady  who  was  very  famous  for  her  beauty,  and  of 
whom  that  friend  whom  I  have  already  called  the  first 
among  my  friends  had  long  been  enamoured.  This  lady's 
right  name  was  Joan  ;  but  because  of  her  comehness  (or  at 
least  it  was  so  imagined)  she  was  called  of  many  Pri?navera 
(Spring),  and  went  by  that  name  among  them.  Then 
looking  again,  I  perceived  that  the  most  noble  Beatrice 
followed  after  her.  And  when  both  these  ladies  had  passed 
by  me,  it  seemed  to  me  that  Love  spake  again  in  my  heart, 
saying  :  "  She  that  came  first  was  called  Spring,  only  because 
of  that  which  was  to  happen  on  this  day.  And  it  was  I 
myself  who  caused  that  name  to  be  given  her  ;  seeing  that 
as  the  Spring  cometh  first  in  the  year,  so  should  she  come 
first  on  this  day,-^  when  Beatrice  was  to  show  herself  after  the 
vision  of  her  servant.  And  even  if  thou  go  about  to  consider 
her  right  name,  it  is  also  as  one  should  say,  '  She  shall  come 
first  ;  '  inasmuch  as  her  name,  Joan,  is  taken  from  that  John 
who  went  before  the  True  Light,  saying  :  '  JEgo  vox  clamantis 
ill  deserto  :  Parate  viam  Domifii'  "  ^  And  also  it  seemed 
to  me  that  he  added  other  words,  to  wit  :  ''  He  who  should 
inquire  delicately  touching  this  matter,  could  not  but  call 
Beatrice  by  mine  own  name,  which  is  to  say,  Love  ;  behold- 
ing her  so  like  unto  me." 

Then  I,  having  thought  of  this,  imagined  to  write  it  with 
rhymes  and  send  it  unto  my  chief  friend  ;  but  setting  aside 
certain  words  ^  which  seemed  proper  to  be  set  aside,  because 
I  believed  that  his  heart  still  regarded  the  beauty  of  her  that 
was  called  Spring.     And  I  wrote  this  sonnet  :  — 

I  FELT  a  spirit  of  love  begin  to  stir 

Withfri  my  heart,  long  time  unfelt  till  then  ; 
And  saw  Love  coming  towards  me  fair  and  fain 
(That  I  scarce  knew  him  for  his  joyful  cheer), 
Saying,  "  Be  now  indeed  my  worshipper  !  " 

1  There  is  a  play  in  the  original  upon  the  words  Primavera  (Spring)  and 
Prima  verrò,  (she  shall  come  first),  to  which  I  have  given  as  near  an  equiva- 
lent as  I  could. 

2  "  I  am  the  voice  of  one  crying  in  the  wilderness  :  Prepare  ye  the  way 
of  the  Lord." 

3  That  is  (as  I  understand  it),  suppressing,  from  delicacy  towards  his 
friend,  the  words  in  which  Love  describes  Joan  as  merely  the  forerunner 
of  Beatrice.  And  perhaps  in  the  latter  part  of  this  sentence  a  reproach  is 
gently  conveyed  to  the  fickle  Guido  Cavalcanti,  who  may  already  have  trans- 
ferred his  homage  (though  Dante  had  not  then  learned  it)  from  Joan  to 
Mandetta.     (See  his  Poems.) 


The  New  Life.  57 


And  in  his  speech  he  laugh'd  and  laugh'd  again. 
Then,  while  it  was  his  pleasure  to  remain, 
I  chanced  to  look  the  way  he  had  drawn  near, 
And  saw  the  Ladies  Joan  and  Beatrice 
Approach  me,  this  the  other  following, 
One  and  a  second  marvel  instantly. 
And  even  as  now  my  memory  speaketh  this, 

Love  spake  it  then:  "The  first  is  christen'd  Spring: 
The  second  Love,  she  is  so  like  to  me." 


This  sonnet  has  iiiany  parts  :  whereof  the  f?'st  tells  how  I 
felt  awakened  withiii  my  heart  the  accusto7ned  tremor,  and 
how  it  seemed  that  Love  appeared  to  7ne  Joyful  from  afar. 
The  second  says  how  it  appea?-ed  to  77ie  that  Love  spake  within 
my  heart,  and  what  was  his  aspect.  Ihe  third  fells  how, 
after  he  had  in  such  wise  beefi  with  me  a  space,  L  saw  and 
heard  certain  things.  The  second  part  begins  here,  "  Sayin^ 
*  Be  now  :  '  "  the  third  here,  "  Then,  while  it  was  his  pleas- 
ure.''^ The  third  part  divides  into  two.  Ln  the  first,  I  say 
what  L  saw.  Ln  the  second,  L  say  what  L  heard  ;  and  it 
begifts  here,  '^  Love  spake  it  then.^'' 


ÒJ 


It  might  be  here  objected  unto  me  (and  even  by  one^ 
worthy  of  controversy),  that  I  have  spoken  of  Love  as  ' 
though  it  were  a  thing  outward  and  visible  :  not  only  a 
spiritual  essence,  but  as  a  bodily  substance  also.  The  which 
thing,  in  absolute  truth,  is  a  fallacy  ;  Love  not  being  of  itself 
a  substance^  but  an  accident  of  substance.  Yet  that  I  speak 
of  Love  as  though  it  were  a  thing  tangible  and  even  human, 
appears  by  three  things  which  I  say  thereof.  And  firstly,  I 
say  that  I  perceived  Love  coming  towards  me  ;  whereby, 
seeing  that  to  come  bespeaks  locomotion,  and  seeing  also  how 
philosophy  teacheth  us  that  none  but  a  corporeal  substance 
hath  locomotion,  it  seemeth  that  I  speak  of  Love  as  of  a 
corporeal  substance.  And  secondly,  I  say  that  Love  smiled  : 
and  thirdly,  that  Love  spake  ;  faculties  (and  especially  the 
risible  faculty)  which  appear  proper  unto  man  :  whereby  it 
further  seemeth  that  I  speak  of  Love  as  of  a  man.  Now  that 
this  matter  may  be  explained  (as  is  fitting),  it  must  first  be 
remembered  that  anciently  they  who  wrote  poems  of  Love 
wrote  not  in  the  vulgar  tongue,  but  rather  certain  poets  in  the 
Latin  tongue.  I  mean,  among  us,  although  perchance  the 
same  may  have  been  among  others,  and  although  likewise,  as 
among  the  Greeks,  they  were  not  writers  of  spoken  language, 


58  Dante  Alighieri. 


but  men  of  letters  treated  of  these  things.^  And  indeed  it  is 
not  a  great  number  of  years  since  poetry  began  to  be  made  in 
the  vulgar  tongue  ;  the  writing  of  rhymes  in  spoken  language 
corresponding  to  the  writing  in  metre  of  Latin  verse,  by  a  cer- 
tain analogy.  And  I  say  that  it  is  but  a  little  while,  because 
if  we  examine  the  language  of  oco  and  the  language  of  sl^^  we 
shall  not  find  in  those  tongues  any  written  thing  of  an  earlier 
date  than  the  last  hundred  and  fifty  years.  Also  the  reason 
why  certain  of  a  very  mean  sort  obtained  at  the  first  some 
fame  as  poets  is,  that  before  them  no  man  had  written  verses 
in  the  language  of  si  :  and  of  these,  the  first  was  moved  to 
the  writing  of  such  verses  by  the  wish  to  make  himself  under- 
stood of  a  certain  lady,  unto  whom  Latin  poetry  was  difììcult. 
This  thing  is  against  such  as  rhyme  concerning  other  matters 
than  Love  ;  that  mode  of  speech  having  been  first  used  for 
the  expression  of  love  alone. ^  Wherefore,  seeing  that  poets 
have  a  license  allowed  them  that  is  not  allowed  unto  the 
writers  of  prose,  and  seeing  also  that  they  who  write  in 
rhyme  are  simply  poets  in  the  vulgar  tongue,  it  becomes 
fitting  and  reasonable  that  a  larger  license  should  be  given  to 
these  than  to  other  modern  writers  ;  and  that  any  metaphor 
or  rhetorical  similitude  which  is  permitted  unto  poets,  should 
also  be  counted  not  unseemly  in  the  rhymers  of  the  vulgar 
tongue.  Thus,  if  we  perceive  that  the  former  have  caused 
inanimate  things  to  speak  as  though  they  had  sense  and 
reason,  and  to  discourse  one  with  another  ;  yea,  and  not  only 
actual  things.,  but  such  also  as  have  no  real  existence  (seeing 
that  they  have  made  things  which  are  not,  to  speak  ;  and 
oftentimes  written  of  those  which  are  merely  accidents  as 

1  On  reading  Dante's  treatise  De  Vulgari  Eloquio,  it  will  be  found  that 
the  distinction  which  he  intends  here  is  not  between  one  language,  or  dialect, 
and  another  ;  but  between  "  vulgar  speech  "  (that  is,  the  language  handed 
down  from  mother  to  son  without  any  conscious  use  of  grammar  or  syntax), 
and  language  as  regulated  by  grammarians  and  the  laws  of  literary  composi- 
tion, and  which  Dante  calls  simply  "  Grammar."  A  great  deal  might  be  said 
on  the  bearings  of  the  present  passage,  but  it  is  no  part  of  my  plan  to  enter 
on  such  questions. 

2  That  is,  the  languages  of  Provence  and  Tuscany. 

3  It  strikes  me  that  this  curious  passage  furnishes  a  reason,  hitherto  (I 
believe)  overlooked,  why  Dante  put  such  of  his  lyrical  poems  as  relate  to 
philosophy  into  the  form  of  love-poems.  He  liked  writing  in  Itahan  rhyme 
rather  than  Latin  metre  ;  he  thought  Italian  rhyme  ought  to  be  confined  to 
love-poems  :  therefore  whatever  he  wrote  (at  this  age)  had  to  take  the  form  of 
a  love-poem.  Thus  any  poem  by  Dante  not  concerning  love  is  later  than  his 
twenty-seventh  yekr  (1291-92),  when  he  wrote  the  prose  of  the  Vita  Nuova; 
the  poetry  having  been  written  earlier,  at  the  time  of  the  events  referred  to. 


The  New  Life.  59 


though  they  were  substances  and  things  human)  ;  it  should 
therefore  be  permitted  to  the  latter  to  do  the  like  ;  which  is 
to  say,  not  inconsiderately,  but  with  such  sufficient  motive  as 
may  afterwards  be  set  forth  in  prose. 

That  the  Latin  poets  have  done  thus,  appears  through 
Virgil,  where  he  saith  that  Juno  (to  wit,  a  goddess  hostile 
to  the  Trojans)  spake  unto  ^olus,  master  of  the  Winds  ;  as 
it  is  written  in  the  first  book  of  the  ^-Eneid,  JEole^  namqiie  tibi, 
etc.  ;  and  that  this  master  of  the  Winds  made  reply  :  Thus  0 
regina,  quid  optes  —  Explorare  labor,  miài  jussa  capessere 
fas  est.  And  through  the  same  poet,  the  inanimate  thing 
speaketh  unto  the  animate,  in  the  third  book  of  the  ^neid, 
where  it  is  written  :  Dardaiiidce  duri,  etc.  With  Lucan,  the 
animate  thing  speaketh  to  the  inanimate  ;  as  thus  :  Multum, 
Roma,  tamen  debes  civilibus  armis.  In  Horace,  man  is 
made  to  speak  to  his  own  intelligence  as  unto  another  per- 
son (and  not  only  hath  Horace  done  this,  but  herein  he 
followeth  the  excellent  Homer)  ;  as  thus  in  his  Poetics  :  Die 
mihi,  Musa,  virwn,  etc.  Through  Ovid,  Love  speaketh  as 
a  human  creature,  in  the  beginning  of  his  discourse  De 
Remediis  Anioris  ;  as  thus  :  Bella  mihi,  video,  bella  pa- 
rantur,  ait.  By  which  ensamples  this  thing  shall  be  made 
manifest  unto  such  as  may  be  offended  at  any  part  of  this 
my  book.  And  lest  some  of  the*common  sort  should  be 
moved  to  jeering  hereat,  I  will  here  add,  that  neither  did 
these  ancient  poets  speak  thus  without  consideration,  nor 
should  they  who  are  makers  of  rhyme  in  our  day  write  after 
the  same  fashion,  having  no  reason  in  what  they  write  ;  for 
it  were  a  shameful  thing  if  one  should  rhyme  under  the 
semblance  of  metaphor  or  rhetorical  similitude,  and  after- 
wards, being  questioned  thereof,  should  be  unable  to  rid  his 
words  of  such  semblance,  unto  their  right  understanding. 
Of  whom  (to  wit,  of  such  as  rhyme  thus  foolishly),  myself 
and  the  first  among  my  friends  do  know  many.  "ÌN  ^  ^  / 

But  returning  to  the  matter  of  my  discourse.  This  ex- 
cellent lady,  of  whom  I  spake  in  what  hath  gone  before, 
came  at  last  into  such  favor  with  all  men,  that  when  she 
passed  anywhere  folk  ran  to  behold  her  ;  which  thing  was  a 
deep  joy  to  me  :   and   when   <^\]e    drew   nenr    unto    any^  so 

much    truth    and    ^implpiie^g    pntprpr}    jpto    ItIq    hpnrt^    thnt    Vip 

dared  nejtbfr  ^^  hTf  his  eyes  nor  to  return  hf]-  t^n^'i^-^^''^^''  : 
and  unto  this,  many  who  have  felt  it  can  bear  witness.     She 


6o  Dante  Alighieri. 


went  along  crowned  and  clothed  with  humility,  showing  no 
whit  of  pride  in  all  that  she  heard  and  saw  :  and  when  she 
had  gone  by,  it  was  said  of  many,  '^This  is  not  a  woman. 
but  one  of  the  beantifnl  ;in,o^e1s  of  Heaven  :  "  and  there  were 
some  that  said  :  "  This  is  surely  a  miracle  ;  blessed  be  the 
Lord,  who  hath  power  to  work  thus  marvellously."  I  say, 
of  very  sooth,  that  she  showed  herself  so  gentle  and  so  full 
of  all  perfection,  that  she  bred  in  those  who  looked  upon 
her  a  soothing  quiet  beyond  any  speech  ;  neither  could  any 
look  upon  her  without  sighing  immediately.  These  things, 
and  things  yet  more  wonderful,  were  brought  to  pass  through 
her  miraculous  virtue.  Wherefore  I,  considering  thereof 
and  wishing  to  resume  the  endless  tale  of  her  praises,  re- 
solved to  write  somewhat  wherein  I  might  dwell  on  her  sur- 
passing influence  ;  to  thp  end  that  not  only  they  who^.  had 
beheld  her,  but  others  also,  might  know  as  much  concerning 
her  as  words  could  give  to  the  understanding.  And  it  was 
then  that  I  wrote  this  sonnet  :  — 

My  lady  looks  so  gentle  and  so  pure 
i^l^tk^  AxA^rO    When  yielding  salutation  by  the  way, 
L4lW.*<A**^«     1/      That  the  tono-ue  tremhlfs  and  h?^s  nr.iinr1-.|  \^  ^r^y^ 
aJ  òlZLù  •         And  the  eves^  which  fain  would  see,  mav"not  endure. 
And  still,  amid  the  praise  she  hears  secure, 
She  walks  with  humbleness  for  her  array  ; 
Seeming  a  creature  sent  from  Heaven  to  stay 
On  earth,  and  show  a  miracle  made  sure. 
She  is  so  pleasant  in  the  eyes  of  men 
That  through  the  sight  the  inmost  heart  doth  gain 

A  sweetness  which  needs  proof  to  know  it  by  : 
And  from  between  her  lips  there  seems  to  move 
A  soothing  essence  that  is  full  of  love. 
Saying  for  ever  to  the  spirit,  '•  Sigh  !  " 

This  sonnet  is  so  easy  to  understand,  from  what  is  afore 
narrated,  that  it  needs  no  division  ;  and  therefore,  leaving  it, 
I  say  also  that  this  excellent  lady  came  into  such  favor  with 
all  men,  that  not  only  she  herself  was  honored  and  com- 
mended, but  through  her  companionship,  honor  and  com- 
mendation came  unto  others.  Wherefore  I,  perceiving  this, 
and  wishing  that  it  should  also  be  made  manifest  to  those 
that  beheld  it  not,  wrote  the  sonnet  here  following  ;  wherein 
is  signified  the  power  which  her  virtue  had  upon  other 
ladies  :  — 


The  New  Life.  ói 


For  certain  he  hath  seen  all  perfectness 

Who  among  other  ladies  hath  seen  mine  : 
'^They  that  go  with  her  humbly  should  combine 
^o  thank  their  God  for  such  peculiar  grace.  — 

^^So  perfect  is  the  beauty  of  her  i^^^  «  CéJJh-rvJ/9& 

J^t  It  begets  mno^wise^^  7 )  tiw^r>tx^  i«/i  ^XM- X-*^ 

Of  envy,  but  draws  round  her  a  clear  Ime  Vyjf      t         ,  n 

prio^eZaha  blessed  faith,  and  gentleness.  J  V^  ^(Luu^-^  ^ 

-"UVferelv  thesight  oTlier  makes  all  things  Eo\,y  /  ^ 

Not  she  herself  alone  is  holier 

Than  all  ;  but  hers,  through  her,  are  raised  above. 
/From  all  her  acts  su'ch. lovely  graces  flow 
That  truly  one  may  never  think  of  her 
Without  a  passion  of  exceeding  love. 

T/iis  sonnet  has  three  parts.  In  the  first,  I  say  in  what 
company  this  lady  appeared  most  wondrous.  In  the  second, 
I  say  how  gracious  was  her  society.  In  the  third,  I  tell  of 
the  things  which  she,  with  power,  ivorked  upon  others. 
The  second  begins  here,  "  They  that  go  with  her  ;  "  the  third 
here,  "  So  perfect.'''  This  last  part  divides  into  three.  In 
the  first,  I  tell  what  she  operated  upon  women,  that  is,  by 
their  own  faculties.  In  the  second,  I  tell  what  she  operated 
in  the7n  through  others.  In  the  third.,  I  say  how  she  not 
only  operated  in  wo7?ten,  but  in  all  people  ;  and  not  only 
while  herself  present,  but,  by  meinory  of  her,  operated  won- 
drously.  The  second  begins  here,  ^^  Merely  the  sight  ;'^  the 
third  here,  ''  From  all  her  acts''' 

Thereafter  on  2.  day,  I  began  to  consider  that  which  I  had 
said  of  my  lady  :  to  wit,  in  these  two  sonnets  aforegone  : 
and  becoming  aware  that  I  had  not  spoken  of  her  immediate 
effect  on  me  at  that  especial  time,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I 
had  spoken  defectively.  Wjierenpon  T  resolyfd  to  write 
Somewhat  of  the  manner  wherein  I  was  then  subject  to  her 
influence,  and  of  what  her  influence  then  was.  And  con- 
ceiving that  I  should  not  be  able  to  say  these  things  in  the 
small  compass  of  a  sonnet,  I  began  therefore  a  poem  with 
this  beginning  :  — 

Love  hath  so  long  possessed  me  for  his  own 

And  made  his  lordship  so  familiar 
That  he,  who  at  first  irked  me,  is  now  grown 

Unto  my  heart  as  its  best  secrets  are. 

And  thus,  when  he  in  such  sore  wise  doth  mar 
My  life  that  all  its  strength  seems  gone  from  il, 
Mine  inmost  being  then  feels  thoroughly  quit 


62  Dante  Alighieri. 


Of  anguish,  and  all  evil  keeps  afar. 
Love  also  gathers  to  such  power  in  me 

That  my  sighs  speak,  each  one  a  grievous  thing. 

Always  soliciting 
My  lady's  salutation  piteously. 
WheneV'er  she  beholds  me,  it  is  so, 
Who  is  more  sweet  than  any  words  can  show. 


Quomodo  sedet  sola  civitas  plena  popiilo  !  facta  est  quasi 
vidua  dojnina  gentium  I  ^ 

I  was  still  occupied  with  this  poem  (having  composed 
thereof  only  the  above- written  stanza),  when  the  Lord  God 
of  justice  called  my  most  gracious  lady  unto  Himself,  that 
she  might  be  glorious  under  the  banner  of  that  blessed  Queen 
Mary,  whose  name  had  always  a  deep  reverence  in  the  words 
of  holy  Beatrice.  And  because  haply  it  might  be  found 
good  that  I  should  say  somew^hat  concerning  her  departure, 
I  will  herein  declare  what  are  the  reasons  which  make  that 
I  shall  not  do  so. 

And  the  reasons  are  three.  The  first  is,  that  such  matter 
belongeth  not  of  right  to  the  present  argument,  if  one  con- 
sider the  opening  of  this  little  book.  The  second  is,  that' 
even  though  the  present  argument  required  it,  my  pen  doth 
not  suffice  to  write  in  a  fit  manner  of  this  thing.  And  the 
third  is,  that  w^ere  it  both  possible  and  of  absolute  necessity, 
it  would  still  be  unseemly  for  me  to  speak  thereof,  seeing 
that  thereby  it  must  behove  me  to  speak  also  mine  own 
praises  :  a  thing  that  in  wdiosoever  doeth  it  is  worthy  of 
blame.  For  the  which  reasons,  I  wall  leave  this  matter  to  be 
treated  of  by  some  other  than  myself. 

Nevertheless,  as  the  number  nine,  which  number  hath 
often  had  mention  in  wdiat  hath  gone  before  (and  not,  as  it 
might  appear,  w^ithout  reason),  seems  also  to  have  borne  a 
part  in  the  manner  of  her  death  :  it  is  therefore  right  that  I 
should  say  somewhat  thereof.  And  for  this  cause,  having 
first  said  what  was  the  part  it  bore  herein,  I  will  afterwards 
point  out  a  reason  which  made  that  this  number  was  so 
closely  allied  unto  my  lady. 

1  "  How  doth  the  city  sit  solitary,  that  was  full  of  people  !  how  is  she 
become  as  a  widow,  she  that  was  great  among  the  nations  !  "  —  Lamentations 
of  Jeremiah^  i.  i. 


The  New  Life.  63 


I  say,  then,  that  according  to  the  division  of  time  in  Italy, 
her  most  noble  spirit  departed  from  among  us  in  the  first 
hour  of  the  ninth  day  of  the  month  ;  and  according  to  the 
division  of  time  in  Syria,  in  the  ninth  month  of  the  year  :  ^^ 

seeing  that  Tismim,  which  with  us  is  October,  is  there  the 
first  month.  Also  she  was  taken  from  among  us  in  that  year 
of  our  reckoning  (to  wit,  of  the  years  of  our  Lord)  in  which 
the  perfect  number  was  nine  times  multiplied  within  that 
century  wherein  she  was  born  into  the  world  :  which  is  to 
say,  the  thirteenth  century  of  Christians.-^ 

And  touching  the  reason  why  this  number  was  so  closely 
allied  unto  her,  it  may  peradventure  be  this.  According  to 
Ptolemy  (and  also  to  the  Christian  verity),  the  revolving 
heavens  are  nine  ;  and  according  to  the  common  opinion  ^V^^ 
among  astrologers,  these  nine  heavens  together  have  influ- 
ence over  the  earth.  Wherefore  it  would  appear  that  this 
number  was  thus  allied  unto  her  for  the  purpose  of  signifying 
that,  at  her  birth,  all  these  nine  heavens  were  at  perfect 
unity  with  each  other  as  to  their  influence.  This  is  one  rea- 
son that  may  be  brought  :  but  more  narrowly  considering, 
and  according  to  the  infallible  truth,  this  number  was  her 
own  self:  that  is  to  say,  by  similitude.  As  thus.  The  num- 
ber three  is  the  root  of  the  number  nine  ;  seeing  that  without 
the  interposition  of  any  other  number,  being  multiplied  mere- 
ly by  itself,  it  produceth  nine,  as  we  manifestly  perceive  that 
three  times  three  are  nine.  Thus,  three  being  of  itself  the 
efficient  of  nine,  and  the  Great  Efficient  of  Miracles  being  of 
Himself  Three  Persons  (to  wit  :  the  Father,  the  Son,  and  the 
Holy  Spirit),  which,  being  Three,  are  also  One  :  —  this  ladv  '^'^»  ^^ 
was  accompanied  by  the  number  -nine  to  the  end  that  men  ^  ^' 
pight  clearlv  perceive  her  to  be  a  nine,  that  is,  a  miracle,  wiiose  lè^^-**^ 
only  root  is  the  Holy  Trinity.  It  may  be  that  a  more  subtile 
person  would  find  for  this  thing  a  reason  of  greater  subtilty  : 
but  such  is  the  reason  that  I  find,  and  that  liketh  me  best. 

After  this  most  gracious  creature  had  gone  out  from  among 
us,  the  whole  city  came  to  be  as  it  were  widowed  and  de- 
spoiled of  all  dignity.     Then  I,  left  mourning  in  this  desolate 

1  Beatrice  Portinari  will  thus  be  found  to  have  died  durine^  the  first  hour  of 
the  9th  of  fune,  i2qo.  And  from  what  Dante  says  at  the  commencement  of 
this  work  (viz.  that  she  was  younger  than  himself  by  eight  or  nine  months), 
it  may  also  be  gathered  that  her  age,  at  the  time  of  her  death,  was  twenty- 
four  years  and  three  months.  The  "perfect  number"  mentioned  in  the 
present  passage  is  the  number  ten. 


64  Dante  Alighieri. 


city,  wrote  unto  the  principal  persons  thereof,  in  an  epistle, 
concerning  its  condition  ;  taking  for  my  commencement 
those  words  of  Jeremias  :  Quomodo  sedet  sola  ciintas  !  etc. 
And  I  make  mention  of  this,  that  none  may  marvel  where- 
fore I  set  down  these  words  before,  in  beginning  to  treat  of 
her  death.  Also  if  any  should  blame  me,  in  that  I  do  not 
transcribe  that  epistle  whereof  I  have  spoken,  I  will  make  it 
mine  excuse  that  I  began  this  Httle  book  with  the  intent  that 
it  should  be  written  altogether  in  the  vulgar  tongue  ;  where- 
fore, seeing  that  the  epistle  I  speak  of  is  in  Latin,  it  belongeth 
not  to  mine  undertaking  :  more  especially  as  I  know  that  my 
chief  friend,  for  whom  I  write  this  book,  wished  also  that  the 
whole  of  it  should  be  in  the  vulgar  tongue. 

When  mine  eyes  had  wept  for  some  while,  until  they  were 
so  weary  with  weeping  that  I  could  no  longer  through  them 
give  ease  to  my  sorrow,  I  bethought  me  that  a  few  mournful 
words  might  stand  me  instead  of  tears.  And  therefore  I 
proposed  to  make  a  poem,  that  weeping  I  might  speak  there- 
in of  her  for  whom  so  much  sorrow  had  destroyed  my  spirit  ; 
and  I  then  began  "The  eyes  that  weep." 

That  this  poem  may  seem  to  remain  the  more  widowed  at 
its  close,  I  will  divide  it  before  writing  it  ;  and  this  method  I 
will  observe  heiiceforward.  I  say  that  this  poor  little  poem 
has  three  parts.  The  first  is  a  prelude.  In  the  seeo?td,  I 
speak  of  her.  In  the  third,  I  speakpitifully  to  the poetn.  The 
second  begi?is  ^ ''re,  ^'-Beatrice  is  goJie  tip;''  the  third  here., 
"  Weep,pitij  Song  of  mine.'''  71ie  first  divides  into  thj-ee. 
In  the  first,  y  what  7noves  me  to  speak.  In  the  second, 
I  say  to  who  I  mean  to  speak.  In  the  third,  I  say  of 
who77i  I  mea.  to  speak.  The  second  begins  hei'e,  ''And 
because  often,  thinking;"  the  third  here,  ''  And  I  will  say." 
Then,  whe7i  I  say,  ""Beatrice  is  gone  up,"  I  speak  of  her  ; 
and  coiicerning  this  I  have  two  pa?-ts.  First,  I  tell  the  cause 
why  she  was  taken  away  from  ns  :  afterwards,  I  say  how 
ojie  weeps  her  parting  ;  and  this  pai't  comjnences  here,  "  Won- 
derfully" This  pa?!  divides  into  thi-ee.  In  the  first,  I  say 
who  it  is  that  weeps  her  7iot.  In  the  seco7td,  I  say  who  it  is 
that  doth  weep  her.  In  the  thÌ7'd,  I  speak  of  my  co7idition. 
The  second  begÌ7is  here,  "  But  sighi7ig  comes,  a7id  grief  ;  "  the 
third,  "  With  sighs."  The7i,  whe7i  I  say,  "  Weep,  pitiful 
So7ig  of  77ii7ie,"  I  speak  to  this  my  song,  telling  it  what  ladies 
to  go  to,  a7id  stay  with. 


The  New  Life.  65 


The  eyes  that  weep  for  pity  of  the  heart 

Have  wept  so  long  that  their  grief  languisheth, 
And  they  have  no  more  tears  to  weep  withal  : 
And  now,  if  I  would  ease  me  of  a  part 

Of  what,  little  by  little,  leads  to  death, 
It  must  be  done  by  speech,  or  not  at  all. 

'^nd  because  often,  thinking,  1  recall 
How  it  was  pleasant,  ere  she  went  afar, 

To  talk  of  her  with  you,  kind  damozels, 

1  talk  with  no  one  else, 
But  only  with  such  hearts  as  women's  are. 
'^nd  I  will  say,  — still  sobbing  as  speech  fails,  — 
That  she  hath  gone  to  Heaven  suddenly, 
And  hath  left  Love  below,  to  mourn  with  me. 

Beatrice  is  gone  up  into  high  Heaven, 

The  kingdom  where  the  angels  are  at  peace; 

And  lives  with  them  :  and  to  her  friends  is  dead. 
Not  by  the  frost  of  winter  was  she  driven 
Away,  like  others  ;  nor  bv  .snmmpr-hpats.- 

But  throuo-h  a  perfect  crentleness,  instead,    ifl    ^  J^-^uu/A-t-»-*^ 
For  from  the  lamp  of  her  meek  lowlihead    -^  '  ^[7\^^4^ ][MjU 

g^nrh  nn  pyrppdin»- ^dpry  wfnt  up  henrn        Yu^  />^-w. 

That  it  woke  wonder  in  the  Fternal  Sirp^  Tkj^  juJ B^'^-'-^ ^ ^ 
Until  a  sweet  d^^M'^  '^  ■"" "   ^^ 


'^^''J^'f 


Entered   Him  for  that  Inyply  pvrpll^nrp,      /*^>^  "^'l^/.^ 

Counting  this  weary  and  most  evjl  piare 

T  Ti-)vvr>rthy  nf  a   thing  ^r^  fnj]   of  cnr-^n(^    -  {J 

Wonderfully  out  of  the  beautiful  form 

Soared  her  clear  spirit,  waxing  glad  the  while  ;.  »,     LL* 

And  is  in  its  first  home^  th^re  where  it  is-  Aft  ^1   *^I^^ 
Who  speaks  thereof,  and  feels  not  the  tears  warm     ^   '^^^'^"^Q 
Upon  his  face,  must  have  become  so  vile 
As  to  be  dead  to  all  sweet  sympathies. 
Out  upon  him  !  an  abject  wretch  like  .this 
May  not  imagine  anything  of  her, — 
He  needs  no  bitter  tears  for  his  relief. 
But  sighing  comes,  and  grief, 
And  the  desire  to  find  no  comforter 

(Save  only  Death,  who  makes  all  sorrow  brief), 
To  him  who  for  a  while  turns  in  his  thought 
How  she  hath  been  among  us,  and  is  not. 

With  sighs  my  bosom  always  laboreth 
In  thinking,  as  I  do  continually, 

Of  her  for  whom  my  heart  now  breaks  apace  ; 

5 


66  Dante  Alighieri. 


And  very  often  when  I  think  of  death, 

Such  a  great  inward  longing  comes  to  me 
That  it  will  change  the  color  of  my  face; 
And,  if  the  idea  settles  in  its  place, 
All  my  limbs  shake  as  with  an  ague-fit  : 

Till,  starting  up  in  wild  bewilderment, 

I  do  become  so  shent 
That  I  go  forth,  lest  folk  misdoubt  of  it. 

Afterward,  calling  with  a  sore  lament 
On  Beatrice,  I  ask,  "  Canst  thou  be  dead  ?  " 
And  calling  on  her,  I  am  comforted. 

GrVef  with  its  tears,  and  anorin^h  with  it»^  '^igh»; 
Come  to  menow  whfP^''^''  ^  "^^^  ninnar 
/    So  that  I  think  the  sight  of  me  gives  pain. 
And  what  my  life  hath  been,  that  living  dies, 
\y      Since  for  my  lady  the  New  Birth  'shpp-ijp^ 
*^      ""  1  liave  not  any  language  to  explam.  ~ 

And  so,  dear  ladies,  though  my  heart  were  fain, 
I  scarce  could  tell  indeed  how  I  am  thus. 
All  joy  is  with  my  bitter  life  at  war  ; 
Yea,  1  am  fallen  so  far 
That  all  men  seem  to  say,  "  Go  out  from  us," 

Eying  my  cold  white  lips,  how  dead  they  are. 
But  she,  though  I  be  bowed  unto  the  dust, 
Watches  me  ;  and  will  guerdon  me,  I  trust. 

Weep,  pitiful  Song  of  mine,  upon  thy  way, 
To  the  dames  going  and  the  damozels 
For  whom  and  for  none  else 

Thy  sisters  have  made  music  many  a  day. 

Thou,  that  art  very  sad  and  not  as  they. 

Go  dwell  thou  with  them  as  a  mourner  dwells. 


After  I  had  written  this  poem,  I  received  the  visit  of  a 
friend  whom  I  counted  as  second  unto  me  in  the  degrees  of 
friendship,  and  who,  moreover,  had  been  united  by  the 
nearest  kindred  to  that  most  gracious  creature.  And  when 
we  had  a  little  spoken  together,  he  began  to  solicit  me  that 
I  would  write  somewhat  in  memory  of  a  lady  who  had  died  ; 
and  he  disguised  his' speech,  so  as  to  seem  to  be  speaking 
of  another  who  was  but  lately  dead  :  wherefore  I,  perceiving 
that  his  speech  was  of  none  other  than  that  blessed  one  her- 
self, told  him  that  it  should  be  done  as  he  required.  Then 
afterwards,  having  thought  thereof,  I  imagined  to  give  vent 


The  New  Life.  6^ 


in  a  sonnet  to  some  part  of  my  hidden  lamentations  ;  but 
in  such  sort  that  it  might  seem  to  be  spoken  by  this  friend 
of  mine,  to  whom  I  was  to  give  it.  And  the  sonnet  saith 
thus  :  "  Stay  now  with  me,"  etc. 

This  so?i?iet  has  two  parts.  I?i  the  first,  I  call  the  Faith- 
ful of  Love  to  hear  7?te.  L?i  the  seco?td,  L  7'elate  my  liiiser- 
able  condition.  The  second  hegÌ7is  here,  "  Mark  how  they 
force.^^ 

Stay  now  with  me,  and  listen  to  my  sighs, 

Ye  piteous  hearts,  as  pity  bids  ye  do. 

Mark  how  they  force  their  way  out  and  press  through  ; 
If  they  be  once  pent  up,  the  whole  life  dies. 
Seeing  that  now  indeed  my  weary  eyes 

Oftener  refuse  than  I  can  tell  to  you 

(Even  though  my  endless  grief  is  ever  new) 
To  weep  and  let  the  smothered  anguish  rise. 
Also  in  sighing  ye  shall  hear  me  call  , 

On  her  whose  blessed  presence  doth  enrirh  \^ rAV CHJ 
The  only  home  that  well  befitteth  her:      ^_3 
And  ye  shall  hear  a  bitter  scorn  of  all 

Sent  from  the  inmost  of  my  spirit  in  speech 
That  mourns  its  joy  and  its  joy's  minister. 

But  when  I  had  written  this  sonnet,  bethinking  me  who 
he  was  to  whom  I  was  to  give  it,  that  it  might  appear  to  be 
his  speech,  it  seemed  to  me  that  this  was  but  a  poor  and 
barren  gift  for  one  of  her  so  near  kindred.  Wherefore,  be- 
fore giving  him  this  sonnet,  I  wrote  two  stanzas  of  a  poem  : 
the  first  being  written  in  very  sooth  as  though  it  were  spoken 
by  him,  but  the  other  being  mine  own  speech,  albeit,  unto 
one  who  should  not  look  closely,  they  would  both  seem  to 
be  said  by  the  same  person.  Nevertheless,  looking  closely, 
one  must  perceive  that  it  is  not  so,  inasmuch  as  one  does 
not  call  this  most  gracious  creature  his  lady,  and  the  other 
does,  as  is  manifestly  apparent.  And  I  gave  the  poem  and 
the  sonnet  unto  my  -friend,  saying  that  I  had  made  them 
only  for  him. 

The  poem  begins,  "  Whatever  while ^^  and  has  two  parts. 
lit  the  first,  that  is,  in  the  first  stanza,  this  7?iy  dear  friend, 
her  kins77ian,  Ia77ie7its.  L7i  the  second,  L  lame7it  ;  that  is,  Ì7i 
the  other  sta7iza,  which  begÌ7is,  "  For  ever.'^  And  thus  it 
appears  that  Ì7i  this  poe77t  two  persons  lament,  of  whom  one 
Ia77ie7its  as  a  brother,  the  other  as  a  serva7it. 


68 


Dante  Alisrhieri. 


Whatever  while  the  thought  comes  over  me 
That  I  may  not  again 

Behold  that  lady  whom  I  mourn  for  now, 
About  my  heart  my  mind  brings  constantly 
So  much  of  extreme  pain 

That  I  say,  Soul  of  mine,  why  stayest  thou? 
Truly  the  anguish,  Soul,  that  we  must  bow 
Beneath,  until  we  win  out  of  this  life. 
Gives  me  full  oft  a  fear  that  trembleth  : 
So  that  I  call  on  Death 
Even  as  on  Sleep  one  calleth  after  strife. 
Saying,  Come  unto  me.     Life  showeth  grim 
And  bare  ;  and  if  one  dies,  I  envy  him. 


r 


.Ka 


.i'» 


:c<r 


For  ever,  among  all  my  sighs  which  burn, 

There  is  a  piteous  speech 

That  clamors  upon  death  continually  : 
Yea,  unto  him  doth  my  whole  spirit  turn 

Since  first  his  hand  did  reach 

My  lady's  life  with  most  foul  cruelty. 
—       But  from  the  height  of  woman's  fairness,  she, 
Going  \ip  from  u,'^  ^lyith  the  joy  we  had. 

Grew  perfectly  and  spirituallv  fair: 

That  so  she  sprenrls  evpn  there 
A  light  r^  I.liv^  ^^'-l-iirji  makes  the  Angels  glad. 
And  even  unto  their  subtile  minds  can  brihg^ 
A  certain  a\ve  ot  prot'ound  marvelling.        ^ 


On  that  day  which  fulfilled  the  year  since  my  lady  had 
been  made  of  the  citizens  of  eternal  life,  remembering  me 
of  her  as  I  sat  alone,  I  betook  myself  to  draw  the  resem- 
blance of  an  angel  upon  certain  tablets.  And  while  I  did 
thus,  chancing  to  turn  my  head,  I  perceived  that  some  were 
standing  beside  me  to  whom  I  should  have  given  courteous 
welcome,  and  that  they  were  observing  what  I  did  :  also  I 
learned  afterwards  that  they  had  been  there  a  while  before 
I  perceived  them.  Perceiving  whom,  I  rose  for  salutation, 
and  said  :  "  Another  was  with  me."  -^ 

Afterwards,  when  they  had  left  me,  I  set  myself  again  to 
mine  occupation,  to  wit,  to  the  drawing  figures  of  angels  : 
in  doing  which,  I  conceived  to  write  of  this  matter  in  rhyme, 


1  Thus  according  to  some  texts, 
"  And  therefore  was  I  in  thought  : 
more  forcible  and  pathetic. 


The  majority,  however,  add  the  words, 
but  the  shorter  speech  is  perhaps  the 


Til  e  Nezv  Life.  69 


\A 


as  for  her  anniversary,  and  to  address  my  rhymes  unto  those 
who  had  just  left  me:  It  was  then  that  I  wrote  the  son- 
net which  saith,  "  That  lady  :  "  and  as  tliis  sonnet  hath  two 
commencements,  it  behoveth  me  to  divide  it  with  both  of 
them  here. 

/  say  that,  accoj'dmg  to  the  first,  this  somiet  has  three  parts. 
In  the  first,  I  say  that  this  lady  was  then  in  my  memory.  Iti 
the  second,  I  tell  what  Love  therefore  did  with  fne.  Iti  the 
third,  I  speak  of  the  efif^ects  of  Love.  The  second  begitis  here, 
^'  Love  knowing  ;  "  the  third  here,  ''Forth  went  they.'''  This 
part  divides  into  two.  In  the  one,  I  say  that  all  my  sighs 
issued  speaking.  In  the  other,  I  say  how  some  spoke  certaiti 
words  different  from  the  others.  The  second  begins  here,  "  Atid 
still.''  In  this  same  tnanner  is  it  divided  with  the  other  be- 
ginning, save  that,  iti  the  first  part,  I  tell  when  this  lady  had 
thus  come  into  ttiy  mind,  atid  this  I  say  not  iti  the  other. 

That  lady  of  all  gentle  memories 

Had  lighted  on  my  soul  ;  —  whose  new  abode 
Lies  now,  as  it  was  well  ordained  of  God, 
Among  the  poor  in  heart,  where  Mary  is. 
1^0 ve.  knowing  that  dear  image  to  be  his, 
^  Wols;e  up  within  the  sick  heart  sorrow-bow'd, 

_Unto  the  sighs  which  are  its  weary  load 
Sayinof,  "■  Go  tortET"     And  ihey  went  forth,  I  wis  ; 
Forth  went  they  from  my  breast  that  throbbed  and  ached  ; 
With  such  a  pang  as  oftentimes  will  bathe 
Mine  eyes  with  tears  when  I  am  left  alone. 
And  still  those  sighs  which  drew  the  heaviest  breath 
Came  whispering  thus  :  "  O  noble  intellect  ! 
It  is  a  year  to-day  that  thou  art  gone." 


Second  Commencement. 

That  lady  of  all  gentle  memories 

Had  lighted  on  my  soul  ;  —  for  whose  sake  flowed 
The  tears  of  Love  ;  in  whom  the  power  abode 

Which  led  you  to  observe  while  I  did  this. 
^x^Love,  knowing  that  dear  image  to  be  his,  etc. 

^  >  Then,  having  sat  for  some  space  sorely  in  thought  because 
of  the  time  that  was  now  past,  I  was  so  filled  with  dolorous 
hnaginings  that  it  became  outwardly  manifest  in  mine  altered 
countenance.     Whereupon,  feehng  this  and  being  in  dread 


70  Dante  Alighieri. 


lest  any  should  have  seen  me,  I  lifted  mine  eyes  to  look; 
and  then  perceived  a  young  and  very  beautiful  lady,  who 
was  gazing  upon  me  from  a  window  with  a  gaze  full  of  pity, 
so  that  the  very  sum  of  pity  appeared  gathered  together  in 
her.  And  seeing  that  unhappy  persons,  when  they  beget 
compassion  in  others,  are  then  most  moved  unto  weeping, 
as  though  they  also  felt  pity  for  themselves,  it  came  to  pass 
that  mine  eyes  began  to  be  inclined  unto  tears.  Where- 
fore, becoming  fearful  lest  I  should  make  manifest  mine  ab- 
ject condition,  I  rose  up,  and  went  where  I  could  not  be 
seen  of  that  lady  ;  saying  afterwards  within  myself  :  "  Cer- 
tainly with  her  also  must  abide  most  noble  Love."  And 
with  that,  I  resolved  upon  writing  a  sonnet,  wherein,  speak- 
ing unto  her,  I  should  say  all  that  I  have  just  said.  And  as 
this  sonnet  is  very  evident,  I  will  not  divide  it  :  — 

Mine  eyes  beheld  the  blessed  pity  spring 

Into  thy  countenance  immediately 

A  while  agone,  when  thou  beheldst  in  me 
The  sickness  only  hidden  grief  can  bring  ; 
And  then  I  knew  thou  wast  considering 

How  abject  and  forlorn  my  life  must  be  ; 

And  I  became  afraid  that  thou  shouldst  see 
My  weeping,  and  account  it  a  base  thing. 
Therefore  I  went  out  from  thee  ;  feeling  how 

The  tears  were  straightway  loosened  at  my  heart 
Beneath  thine  e3-es'  compassionate  control. 
And  afterwards  I  said  within  my  soul  : 

"  Lo  !  with  this  lady  dwells  the  counterpart 
Of  the  same  Love  who  holds  me  weeping  now." 

It  happened  after  this  that  whensoever  I  was  seen  of  this 
lady,  she  became  pale  and  of  a  piteous  countenance,  as 
though  it  had  been  with  love  ;  whereby  she  remembered  jp e 
many  times  of  my  own  most  nohle  lady^  who  ^^^^"^  vrnn^  ^^ 
he  of  PI  like  paleness.  And  I  know  that  often,  when  I  could 
not  weep  nor  m  any  way  give  ease  unto  mine  anguish,  I 
went  to  look  upon  this  lady,  who  seemed  to  bring  the  tears 
into  my  eyes  by  the  mere  sight  of  her.  Of  the  which  thing 
I  bethought  me  to  speak  unto  her  in  rhyme,  and  then  made 
this  sonnet  :  which  begins,  "  Love's  pallor,"  and  which  is 
plain  without  being  divided,  by  its  exposition  aforesaid  :  — 

Love's  pallor  and  the  semblance  of  deep  ruth 
Were  never  yet  shown  forth  so  perfectly 
In  any  lady's  face,  chancing  to  see 


TJlc  New  Life. 


Grief's  miserable  countenance  uncouth, 

As  in  thine,  lady,  they  have  sprung  to  soothe, 

When  in  mine  anguish  thou  hast  looked  on  me  ; 

Until  sometimes  it  seems  as  if,  through  thee, 
My  heart  might  almost  wander  from  its  truth. 
Yet  so  it  is,  I  cannot  hold  mine  eyes 

From  gazing  very  often  upon  thine 

In  the  sore  hope  to  shed  those  tears  they  keep  ; 
And  at  such  time,  thou  mak'st  the  pent  tears  rise 

Even  to  the  brim,  till  the  eyes  waste  and  pine  ; 
Yet  cannot  they,  while  thou  art  present,  weep. 

At  length,  by  the  constant  sight  of  this  lady,  mine  eyes 
heo-an  to  he  gladdened  overmnrh  with  her  rnmp^nj^  j  thrniirrh 
which  thing  riianv  times  T  hnd  mnrh  imrpc^f^  and  r^KiiV^d 
my^plf  a^  pi  ha^e  person. •  also,  many  times  I  cursed  the 
unsteadfastness  of  mine  eyes,  and  said  to  them  inwardly  : 
"  Was  not  your  grievous  condition  of  weeping  wont  one 
while  to  make  others  weep?  And  will  ye  now  forget  this 
thing  because  a  lady  looketh  upon  you?  who  so  looketh 
merely  in  compassion  of  the  grief  ye  then  showed  for  your 
own  blessed  lady.  But  whatso  ye  can,  that  do  ye,  accursed 
eyes  !  many  a  time  will  I  make  you  remember  it  !  for  never, 
till  death  dry  you  up,  should  ye  make  an  end  of  your  weep- 
ing." And  when  I  had  spoken  thus  unto  mine  eyes,  I  was 
taken  again  with  extreme  and  grievous  sighing.  And  to  the 
end  that  this  inward  strife  which  I  had  undergone  might  not 
be  hidden  from  all  saving  the  miserable  wretch  who  endured 
it,  I  proposed  to  write  a  sonnet,  and  to  comprehend  in  it 
this  horrible  condition.  And  I  wrote  this  which  begins, 
"  The  very  bitter  weeping." 

The  soimet  has  two  parts.  In  the  first,  I  speak  to  uiy  eyes, 
as  my  heart  spoke  within  myself.  In  the  seco?id,  I  reinove  a 
difficidty.,  showing  n'ho  it  is  that  speaks  thus  :  and  this  part 
begins  here^  "  So  far.''  It  well  might  receive  other  divisions 
also  ;  bnt  this  would  be  useless^  since  it  is  manifest  by  the 
preceding  exposition. 

"  The  very  bitter  weeping  that  ye  made 
So  long  a  time  together,  eyes  of  mine, 
Was  wont  to  make  the  tears  of  pity  shine 

In  other  eyes  full  oft,  as  I  have  said. 

But  nov/  this  thing  were  scarce  remembered 
,  If  I,  on  my  part,  foully  would  combine 
With  you,  and  not  recall  each  ancient  sign 


Dante  A  li  schieri. 


Of  grief,  and  her  for  whom  your  tears  were  shed. 
It  is  your  fickleness  that  doth  betray 

My  mind  to  fears,  and  makes  me  tremble  thus 
What  while  a  lady  greets  me  with  her  eyes. 
Except  by  death,  we  must  not  any  way 
Forget  our  lady  who  is  gone  from  us." 

So  far  doth  my  heart  utter,  and  then  sighs. 


The  sight  of  this  lady  brought  me  into  so  unwonted  a  con- 
dition that  I  often  thought  of  her  as  of  one  too  dear  unto 
me  ;  and  I  began  to  consider  her  thus  :  ^'  This  lady  is  young, 
l^autiful,  gentle,  and  wise  :  perchance  it  was  Love  himself 
VYJli^set  lier  m  my  path,  that  so  mv  hfe  might  find  peace." 
And  there  were  times  when  I  thought  yet  more  fondly,  until 
my  heart  consented  unto  its  reasoning.  But  when  it  had 
so  consented,  my  thought  would  often  turn  round  upon  me, 
as  moved  by  reason,  and  cause  me  to  say  within  myself: 
"  What  hope  is  this  which  would  console  me  after  so  base  a 
fashion,  and  which  hath  taken  the  place  of  all  other  imagin- 
ing?" Also  there  was  another  voice  within  me,  that  said  : 
"  And  wilt  thou,  having  suffered  so  much  tribulation  through 
Love,  not  escape  while  yet  thou  mayst  from  so  much  bitter- 
ness? Thou  must  surely  know  that  this  thought  carries  with 
it  the  desire  of  Love,  and  drew  its  life  from  the  gentle  eyes 
of  that  lady  who  vouchsafed  thee  so  much  pity."  Wherefore 
I,  having  striven  sorely  and  very  often  with  myself,  bethought 
me  to  say  somewhat  thereof  in  rhyme.  And  seeing  that  in 
the  battle  of  doubts,  the  victory  most  often  remained  with 
such  as  inclined  towards  the  lady  of  whom  I  speak,  it  seemed 
to  me  that  I  should  address  this  sonnet  unto  her  :  in  the  first 
line  whereof,  I  call  that  thought  which  spake  of  her  a  gentle 
thought,  only  because  it  spoke  of  one  who  was  gentle  ;  being 
of  itself  most  vile.^ 

/;/  this  sonnet  I  make  myself  into  tiao,  according  as  my 
thoughts  wer-e  divided  07ie  from  the  other.  The  one  ^art  I 
call  Hearty  that  is.  a1)i)etite :  the  other,  Soul,  TJiat  is,  reason; 


1  Boccaccio  tells  us  that  Dante  was  married  to  Gemma  Donate  about  a  year 
after  the  death  of  Beatrice.  Can  Gemma  then  be  "  the  lady  of  the  window," 
his  love  for  whom  Dante  so  contemns  ?  Such  a  passing  conjecture  (when  con- 
sidered together  with  the  interpretation  of  this  passage  in  Dante's  later  work, 
the  Convito)  would  of  course  imply  an  admission  of  what  I  believe  to  lie  at  the 
heart  of  all  true  Dantesque  commentary  ;  that  is,  the  existence  always  of  the 
actual  events  even  where  the  allegorical  superstructure  has  been  raised  by 
Dante  himself. 


TI  Le  New  Life.  y^ 


a?id  I  teli  what  07ie  saith  to  the  other.  And  that  it  is  fittÌ7ig 
to  call  the  appetite  Hearty  and  the  reason  Soul,  is  7nanifest 
enough  to  them  to  whom  I  wish  this  to  be  open.  True  it  is 
that,  in  the  preceding  sonjiet,  I  take  the  part  of  the  Heart 
against  the  Eyes  ;  and  that  appears  contrary  to  what  I  say  i/t 
the  presetit  ;  'and  therefore  I  say  that,  there  also,  by  the  Heart 
I  mea7i  appetite,  because  yet  greater  7vas  my  desire  to  remember 
my  mnxf  g^uf/p  Igdy  than  to  see  this  other,  alt/wuz/i  indeed  I 
had  some  appetite  towards  her,  but  it  appeared  slight  :  where- 
fro?n  it  appears  that  the  one  statei7ie}it  is  7iot  co/itra7y  to  the 
other.  This  S07i7iet  has  three  parts.  J71  the  first,  I  begin 
to  say  to  this  lady  how  7ny  desires  tur7i  all  towards  her. 
I7i  the  seco7id,  I  say  how  the  Soul,  that  is,  the  reaso7i, 
speaks  to  the  Heart,  that  is,  to  the  appetite.  I7i  the  thirds 
I  say  how  the  latter  answers.  The  secofid  begins  here, 
"  A7id  7vhat  is  this  ì  "  the  third  here,  "■  A7id  the  hea7't 
a/iswers.'^ 

A  GENTLE  thought  there  is  will  often  start. 
Within  my  secret  self,  to  speech  of  thee  : 
Also  of  Love  it  speaks  so  tenderly 

That  much  in  me  consents  and  takes  its  part. 

"And  what  is  this,"  the  soul  saith  to  the  heart, 
"  That  Cometh  thus  to  comfort  thee  and  me. 
And  thence  where  it  would  dwell,  thus  potently 

Can  drive  all  other  thoughts  by  its  strange  art  ?  " 

And  the  heart  answers  :  "  Be  no  more  at  strife 

'Twixt  doubt  and  doubt  :  tins  is  Love's  messenger 
And  speaketh  but  his  woi-'dspTrom  him  reroivt^^d  ^ 

And  all  the  strength  it  owns  and  all  the  life! 
Tf  di-awpth  froi-11  the  o-ent1e  eyes  of  her 
Who,  looking  on  our  grief,  hath  often  grieved." 


But  against  this  adversary  of  reason,  there  rose  up  in  me 
on  a  certain  day,  about  the  ninth  hour,  a  strong  visible  fan- 
tasy, wherein  I  seemed  to  beKoTS'llTè  most  gracious  Beatrice, 
habited  in  that  crimson  raiment  which  she  had  worn  when  I 
had  first  beheld  her  ;  also  she  appeared  to  me  of  the  same 
tender  age  as  then.  Whereupon  I  fell  into  a  deep  thought 
of  her  :  and  my  memory  ran  back,  according  to  the  order  of 
time,  unto  all  those  matters  in  the  which  she  had  borne  a 
part  ;  and  my  heart  began  painfully  to  repent  of  the  desire 
by  which  it  had  so  basely  let  itself  be  possessed  during  so 
many  days,  contrary  to  the  constancy  of  reason. 


74  Dciìite  AligJncn. 


And  then,  this  evil  desire  being  quite  gone  from  me,  all 
my  thoughts  turned  again  unto  their  excellent  Beatrice. 
And  I  say  most  truly  that  from  that  hour  I  thought  con- 
stantly of  her  vvitJi  the  whole  humbled  and  ashamed  heart  ; 
the  which  became  often  manifest  in  sighs,  that  had  among 
them  the  name  of  that  most  gracious  creature,  and  how  she 
departed  from  us.  Also  it  would  come  to  pass  very  often, 
through  the  bitter  anguish  of  some  one  thought,  that  I  for- 
got both  it,  and  myself,  and  where  I  was.  By  this  increase 
of  sighs,  my  weeping,  which  before  had  been  somewhat  les- 
sened, increased  in  like  manner  ;  so  that  mine  eyes  seemed 
to  long  only  for  tears  and  to  cherish  them,  and  came  at  last 
to  be  circled  about  with  red  as  though  they  had  suffered 
martyrdom  :  neither  were  they  able  to  look  again  upon  the 
beauty  of  any  face  that  might  again  bring  them  to  shame 
and  evil  :  from  which  things  it  will  appear  that  they  were 
fitly  guerdoned  for  their  unsteadfastness.  Wherefore  I  (wish- 
ing that  mine  abandonment  of  all  such  evil  desires  and 
vain  temptations  should  be  certified  and  made  manifest, 
beyond  all  doubts  which  might  have  been  suggested  by 
the  rhymes  aforewritten)  proposed  to  write  a  sonnet  where- 
in I  should  express  this  purport.  And  I  then  wrote,  ''  Woe  's 
me!" 

/  said,  "  Woe  V  me  f^^  because  I  was  ashamed  of  the  tri- 
fling of  Jtiine  eyes.  This  son?iet  I  do  not  divide^  since  its  pur- 
port is  manifest  enough. 


Woe  's  me  !  by  dint  of  all  these  sighs  that  come 
Forth  of  my  heart,  its  endless  grief  to  prove, 
Mine  eyes  are  conquered,  so  that  even  to  move 

Their  lids  for  greeting  is  grown  troublesome. 

They  wept  so  long  that  now  they  are  grief's  home, 
And  count  their  tears  all  laughter  far  above  ; 
They  wept  till  they  are  circled  now  by  Love 

With  a  red  circle  in  sign  of  martyrdom. 

These  musings,  and  the  sighs  they  bring  from  me, 
Are  grown  at  last  so  constant  and  so  sore 

That  love  swoons  in  my  spirit  with  faint  breath  ; 

Hearing  in  those  sad  sounds  continually 

The  most  sweet  name  that  my  dead  lady  bore, 
With  many  grievous  words  touching  her  death. 

About  this  time,  it  happened  that  a  great  number  of  per- 
sons undertook  a  pilgrimage,  to   the   end   that   they  might 


The  New  Life.  75 


behold  that  blessed  portraiture  bequeathed  unto  us  by  our 
Lord  Jesus  Christ  as  the  image  of  His  beautiful  countenance  ^ 
(upon  which  countenance  my  dear  lady  now  looketh  contin- 
ually). And  certain  among  these  pilgrims,  who  seemed  very 
thoughtful,  passed  by  a  path  which  is  well-nigh  in  the  midst 
of  the  city  where  my  most  gracious  lady  was  born,  and  abode, 
and  at  last  died. 

Then  I,  beholding  them,  said  within  myself:  "These  pil- 
grims seem  to  be  come  from  very  far  ;  and  I  think  they 
cannot  have  heard  speak  of  this  lady,  or  know  anything  con- 
cerning her.  Their  thoughts  are  not  of  hf^r,  ^^^^^  ^^  ni-1-.Pr 
things  ;  it  may  be^  of  thejr  fHpnHt:  \fj\ycy  ^|-f^  fnr  Hi^tpnt^  '^^'^ 
whom  we,  in  our  turn,  know  not.^  And  I  went  on  to  say  : 
"  "  1  know  tnat  it  ttiey  were  01  a  country  near  unto  us,  they 
would  in  some  wise  seem  disturbed,  passing  through  this  city 
which  is  so  full  of  grief."  And  I  said  also  :  "  If  I  could 
speak  with  them  a  space,  I  am  certain  that  I  should  make 
them  weep  before  they  went  forth  of  this  city  ;  for  those 
things  that  they  would  hear  from  me  must  needs  beget  weep- 
ing in  any." 

And  when  the  last  of  them  had  gone  by  me,  I  bethought 
me  to  write  a  sonnet,  showing  forth  mine  inward  speech  ; 
and  that  it  might  seem  the  more  pitiful,  I  made  as  though  I 
had  spoken  it  indeed  unto  them.  And  I  wrote  this  sonnet, 
which  beginneth  :  "  Ye  pilgrim-folk."  I  made  use  of  the 
word  pilo:rÌ7ii  for  its  generafsigmfication  :  for  '^  pilgrjm  "  may 
i)e  understood  in  two  senses^  one  general,  and  n^ie  t;pprin1 
General,  so  far  as  any  man  may  he  called  a  pilgrim  who 
leaveth  the  place  of  his  birth  ;  whereas,  more  narrowlv  speak- 
ing, he  only  is  a  pilgrmi  who  goeth  towpirds  or  frp\vards  the 
"t^ouse  of  St.  James.  For  there  are  three  separate  denomi- 
nations proper  unto  those  who  undertake  journeys  to  the 
glory  of  God.  They  are  called  Palmers  who  go  beyond  the 
seas  eastward,  whence  often  they  bring  palm-branches.     And 

1  The  Veronica  (  Vera  icon,  or  true  image)  ;  that  is,  the  napkin  with  which 
a  woman  was  said  to  have  wiped  our  Saviour's  face  on  His  w^ay  to  the  cross, 
and  which  miraculously  retained  its  likeness.  Dante  makes  mention  of  it  also 
in  the  Commedia  (Farad,  xxi.  103),  where  he  says:  — 

"  Qual  è  colui  che  forse  di  Croazia 

Viene  a  veder  la  Veronica  nostra 
Che  per  1'  antica  fama  non  si  sazia 

Ma  dice  nel  pansier  fin  che  si  mostra  : 
Signor  mio  Gesù  Cristo,  Iddio  verace. 

Or  fu  sì  fatta  la  sembianza  vostra  ?  "  etc. 


76 


Dante  Alighieri. 


Pilgrims,  as  I  have  said,  are  they  who  journey  unto  the  holy 
House  of  Gallicia  ;  seeing  that  no  other  apostle  was  buried 
so  far  from  his  birthplace  as  was  the  blessed  Saint  James. 
And  there  is  a  third  sort  who  are  called  Romers  ;  in  that 
they  go  whither  these  whom  I  have  called  pilgrims  went  : 
which  is  to  say,  unto  Rome. 

This  sonnet  is  not  divided,  because  its  own  woj'ds  sufficiently 
declare  it. 


Ye  pilgrim-folk,  advancing  pensively 

As  if  in  thought  of  distant  things,  I  pray, 
Is  your  own  land  indeed  so  far  away  — 
As  by  your  aspect  it  would  seem  to  be  — 
JThat  this  our  heavy  sorrow  leaves  you  free 

lliougli  passing  through  the  nVourntU*  town  mid-wny_: 
Like  unto  men  that  understand  to-day 
iNothing  at  all  of  her  great  misery? 
Yet  if  ye  will  but  stay,  whom  I  accost, 
And  listen  to  my  words  a  little  space, 

At  going  ye  shall  mourn  with  a  loud  voice. 
It  is  her  Beatrice  that  she  hath  lost  ; 

Ut  whom  the  least  word  spoken  holds  snrh  grare 
l^hat  men  weep  hearing  it,  and  have  no  choice. 


A  while  after  these  things,  two  gentle  ladies  sent  unto  me, 
praying  that  I  would  bestow  upon  them  certain  of  these  my 
rhymes.  And  I  (taking  into  account  their  worthiness  and 
consideration)  resolved  that  I  would  write  also  a  new  thing, 
and  send  it  them  together  with  those  others,  to  the  end  that 
their  wishes  might  be  more  honorably  fulfilled.  Therefore 
I  made  a  sonnet,  which  narrates  my  condition,  and  which  I 
caused  to  be  conveyed  to  them,  accompanied  by  the  one 
preceding,  and  with  that  other  which  begins,  "  Stay  now  with 
me  and  listen  to  my  sighs."  And  the  new  sonnet  is,  **  Be- 
yond the  sphere." 

This  sonnet  comprises  Jive  parts,  hi  the  first,  I  tell  whither 
my  thought  goeth,  naming  the  place  by  the  ?iame  of  one  of  its 
effects .  In  the  second,  I  say  wherefore  it  goeth  up,  and  who 
makes  it  go  thus.  In  the  third,  I  tell  what  it  saw,  namely,  a 
lady  honored.  And  I  then  call  it  a  "  Pilgrim  Spirit,'''  because 
it  goes  up  spiritually,  and  like  a  pilgrÌ77i  who  is  out  of  his 
knowJi  cou7itry.  In  the  fourth,  I  say  how  the  spirit  sees  her 
such  {that  is,  in  such  quality)  that  I  cannot  understand  her  ; 
that  is  to  say,  my  thought  rises  into  the  quality  of  her  in  a 


The  Neiv  Life.  77 


degree  that  my  intellect  cafinot  C07nprehe?td,  seeing  that  our 
intellect  is,  towards  those  blessed  souls,  like  our  eye  weak 
against  the  sun;  and  this  the  Philosopher  says  in  the  Second 
of  the  Metaphysics.  In  the  fifth,  I  say  that,  although  I 
cannot  see  there  whither  niy  thought  carries  me — that  is, 
to  her  admirable  essence  —  I  at  least  understand  this,  namely, 
that  it  is  a  thought  of  my  lady,  because  I  often  hear  her  name 
therein.  A?id,  at  the  end  of  this  fifth  pa?'t,  I  say,  "  Ladies 
mine,'"  to  show  that  they  are  ladies  to  whom  I  speak.  The 
second  part  begins,  "  A  new  perception  ;  "  the  third,  "  When 
it  hath  reached  ;  "  the  fourth,  "  //  sees  her  such  ;  "  the  fifth.. 
^^  And  yet  I  know. ''^  It  might  be  divided  yet  more  nicely,  and 
made  yet  clearer  ;  but  this  division  may  pass^  and  therefore  I 
stay  not  to  divide  it  further. 

Beyond  the  sphere  which  spreads  to  widest  space 
Now  soars  the  sigh  tlmt  my  heart  sends  abovej 
Jt\  ne\v~ perception  Sorn  ot  grieving  Love 

Guideth  it  upward  the  untrodden  ways. 

When  it  hath  reached  unto  the  end,  and  stays, 
It  sees  a  lady  round  whom  splendors  move 
In  homage;  till,  by  the  great  light  thereof 

Abashed,  the  pilgrim  spirit  stands  at  gaze. 

It  sees  her  such,  that  when  it  tells  me  this 
Which  it  hath  seen,  I  understand  it  not, 
It  hath  a  speech  so  subtile  and  so  fine. 
And  yet  I  know  its  voice  wilhin  my  thou^JiL 

Often  remembereth  me  ot  Beatrice  : 

Ì50  that  1  understand  ii,  ladles"  mine. 

After  writing  this  sonnet,  it  was  given  unto  me  to  behold  a 
very  wonderful  vision  :  ^  wherein  I  saw  things  which  deter- 
mined me  that  I  would  say  nothing  further  of  this  most 
blessed  one,  until  such  time  as  I  could  discourse  more  wor- 
thily concerning  her.  And  to  this  end  I  labor  all  I  can  ;  as 
she  well  knoweth.  Wherefore  if  it  be  His  pleasure  through 
whom  is  the  Hfe  of  all  things,  that  my  life  continue  with  me 
a  few  years,  it  is  my  hope  that  I  shall  yet  write  concerning 
her  what  hath  not  before  been  written  of  any  woman.     After 

1  This  we  may  believe  to  have  been  the  Vision  of  Hell,  Purgatory,  and 
Paradise,  which  furnished  the  triple  argument  of  the  Divina  Commedia.  The 
Latin  words  ending  the  Vita  Nuova  are  almost  identical  with  those  at  the 
close  of  the  letter  in  which  Dante,  on  concluding  the  Paradise,  and  accom- 
plishing the  hope  here  expressed,  dedicates  his  great  work  to  Can  Grande  della 
Scala. 


y8  Dante  Alighieri, 


the  which,  may  it  seem  good  unto  Him  who  is  the  Master  of 
Grace,  that  my  spirit  should  go  hence  to  behold  the  glory  of 
its  lady  :  to  wit,  of  that  blessed  Beatrice  who  now  gazeth 
continually  on  His  countenance  qui  est  per  omnia  scecula 
bejiedicius?-    Laus  Deo. 


1  "  Who  is  blessed  throughout  all  ages.' 


THE  END  OF  THE  NEW   LIFE. 


Dante  AligJiieri.  79 


I. 

TO   BRUNETTO    LATINI. 

Sonnet. 

Sent  with  the  Vita  Nuova. 

Master  Brunetto,  this  my  little  maid 

Is  come  to  spend  her  Easter-tide  with  you; 

Not  that  she  reckons  feasting  as  her  due,  — 
Whose  need  is  hardly  to  be  fed,  but  read. 
Not  in  a  hurry  can  her  sense  be  weigh'd, 

Nor  mid  the  jests  of  any  noisy  crew  : 

Ah  !  and  she  wants  a  little  coaxing  too 
Before  she  '11  get  into  another's  head. 
But  if  you  do  not  find  her  meaning  clear, 

You  've  many  Brother  Alberts  ^  hard  at  hand, 
Whose  wisdom  will  respond  to  any  call. 
Consult  with  them  and  do  not  laugh  at  her  ; 

And  if  she  still  is  hard  to  understand, 
Apply  to  Master  Janus  last  of  all. 

II. 
Sonnet.'^ 

Of  Beatrice  de"*  Portinari,  on  All  Saints^  Day. 

Last  All  Saints'  holy-day,  even  now  gone  by, 
I  met  a  gathering  of  damozels  : 
She  that  came  first,  as  one  doth  who  excels, 

Had  Love  with  her,  bearing  her  company  : 

A  flame  burned  forward  through  her  steadfast  eye, 
As  when  in  hving  fire  a  spirit  dwells  : 
So,  gazing  with  the  boldness  which  prevails 

O'er  doubt,  I  knew  an  angel  visibly. 

''■  Probably  in  allusion  to  Albert  of  Cologne.  Giano  (Janus),  which  follows,  was 
in  use  as  an  Italian  name,  as  for  instance  Giano  della  Bella;  but  it  seems  probable 
that  Dante  is  merely  playfully  advising  his  preceptor  to  avail  himself  of  the  twofold 
insight  of  Janus  the  double-faced. 

2  This  and  the  six  following  pieces  (with  the  possible  exception  of  the  canzone  at 
page  81)  seem  so  certainly  to  liave  been  written  at  the  same  time  as  the  poetry  of  the 
Vita  Nuova^  that  it  becomes  difficult  to  guess  why  they  were  omitted  from  that 
work.  Other  poems  in  Dante's  Canzoniere  refer  in  a  more  general  manner  to  his 
love  for  Beatrice,  but  each  among  those  I  allude  to  bears  the  impress  of  some  special 
occasion. 


8o  Dante  Aligli  neri. 


As  she  passed  on,  she  bowed  her  mild  approof 

And  salutation  to  all  men  of  worth, 
Liftin_2;  the  soul  to  solemn  thoughts  aloof. 

In  Heaven  itself  that  lady  had  her  birth, 
I  think,  and  is  with  us  for  our  behoof  : 

Blessed  are  they  who  meet  her  on  the  earth. 

III. 

Sonnet. 

To  certain  Ladies  ;  wJieii  Beatrice  was  la7nenting  her 
Father'' s  Death?- 

Whence  come  you,  all  of  you  so  sorrowful  ? 

An  it  may  please  you,  speak  for  courtesy. 

I  fear  for  my  dear  lady's  sake,  lest  she 
Have  made  you  to  return  thus  filled  with  dule. 
O  gentle  ladies,  be  not  hard  to  school 

In  gentleness,  but  to  some  pause  agree, 

And  something  of  my  lady  say  to  me, 
For  with  a  little  my  desire  is  full. 
Howbeit  it  be  a  heavy  thing  to  hear: 

For  Love  now  utterly  has  thrust  me  forth. 
With  hand  for  ever  lifted,  striking  fear. 

See  if  I  be  not  worn  unto  the  earth  ; 
Yea,  and  my  spirit  must  fail  from  me  here, 

If,  when  you  speak,  your  words  are  of  no  worth. 

'      IV. 
Sonnet. 
To  the  same  Ladies  ;  with  their  Answer. 

Ye  ladies,  walking  past  me  piteous-eyed. 
Who  is  the  lady  that  lies  prostrate  here.'' 
Can  this  be  even  she  my  heart  holds  dear.^* 

Nay,  if  it  be  so,  speak,  and  nothing  hide. 

Her  very  aspect  seems  itself  beside. 

And  all  her  features  of  such  altered  cheer 
That  to  my  thinking  they  do  not  appear 

Hers  who  makes  others  seem  beatified. 

"  If  thou  forget  to  know  our  lady  thus, 

Whom  grief  overcomes,  we  w^onder  in  no  wise, 

For  also  the  same  thing  befalleth  us. 

Yet  if  thou  watch  the  movement  of  her  eyes. 

Of  her  thou  shalt  be  straightway  conscious. 
O  weep  no  more  ;  thou  art  all  wan  with  sighs." 

1  See  the  Vita  Nuova,  at  page  49. 


Dante  Al ig J  neri. 


V. 

Ballata. 

He  will  gaze  tip  on  Beatrice. 

Because  mine  eyes  can  never  have  their  fill 
Of  looking  at  my  lady's  lovely  face, 

I  will  so  fix  my  gaze 
That  I  may  become  blessed,  beholding  her. 

Even  as  an  angel,  up  at  his  great  height 
Standing  amid  the  fight, 

Becometh  blessed  by  only  seeing  God  :  — 
So,  though  I  be  a  simple  earthly  wight, 
Yet  none  the  less  I  might. 

Beholding  her  who  is  my  heart's  dear  load, 

Be  blessed,  and  in  the  spirit  soar  abroad. 
Such  power  abideth  in  that  gracious  one  ; 
Albeit  felt  of  none 

Save  of  him  who,  desiring,  honors  her. 

VI. 

Canzone. 1 

A  Complaint  of  his  Lady''s  scorn. 

Love,  since  it  is  thy  will  that  I  return 
'Neath  her  usurped  control 

Who  is  thou  know'st  how  beautiful  and  proud  ; 
Enhghten  thou  her  heart,  so  bidding  burn 
Thy  flame  within  her  soul 

That  she  rejoice  not  when  my  cry  is  loud. 

Be  thou  but  once  endowed 
With  sense  of  the  new  peace,  and  of  this  fire. 

And  of  the  scorn  wherewith  I  am  despised. 
And  wherefore  death  is  my  most  fierce  desire  ; 

And  then  thou  'It  be  apprised 
Of  all.     So  if  thou  slay  me  afterward. 
Anguish  unburthened  shall  make  death  less  hard. 

O  Lord,  thou  knowest  very  certainly 

That  thou  didst  make  me  apt 
To  serve  thee.     But  I  was  not  wounded  yet, 
When  under  heaven  I  beheld  openly 

The  face  which  thus  hath  rapt 

^  This  poem  seems  probably  referable  to  the  time  during  which  Beatrice  denied  her 
salutation  to  Dante.     (See  the  Vita  Nuova,  at  page  34  et  seq.) 

6 


82  Dante  Alighieri. 


My  soul.     Then  all  my  spirits  ran  elate 

Upon  her  will  to  wait. 
And  she,  the  peerless  one  who  o'er  all  worth 

Is  still  her  proper  beauty's  worshipper, 
Made  semblance  then  to  guide  them  safely  forth  : 

And  they  put  faith  in  her  : 
Till,  gathering  them  within  her  garment  all. 
She  turned  their  blessed  peace  to  tears  and  gall. 

Then  I  (for  I  could  hear  how  they  complained), 
As  sympathy  impelled. 

Full  oft  to  seek  her  presence  did  arise. 
And  mine  own  soul  (which  better  had  refrained) 
So  much  my  strength  upheld 

That  I  could  steadily  behold  her  eyes. 

This  in  thy  knowledge  lies, 
Who  then  didst  call  me  with  so  mild  a  face 

That  I  hoped  solace  from  my  greater  load  : 
And  when  she  turned  the  key  on  my  dark  place, 

Such  ruth  thy  grace  bestowed 
Upon  my  grief,  and  in  such  piteous  kind. 
That  I  had  strength  to  bear,  and  was  resign'd. 

For  love  of  the  sweet  favor's  comforting 
Did  I  become  her  thrall  ; 

And  still  her  every  movement  gladdened  me 
With  triumph  that  I  served  so  sweet  a  thing  : 
Pleasures  and  blessings  all 

I  set  aside,  my  perfect  hope  to  see  : 

Till  her  proud  contumely  — 
That  so  mine  aim  might  rest  unsatisfied  — 

Covered  the  beauty  of  her  countenance. 
So  straightway  fell  into  my  living  side. 

To  slay  me,  the  swift  lance  : 
While  she  rejoiced  and  watched  my  bitter  end, 
Only  to  prove  what  succor  thou  wouldst  send. 

I  therefore,  weary  with  my  love's  constraint. 
To  death's  deliverance  ran. 

That  out  of  terrible  grief  I  might  be  brought  : 
For  tears  had  broken  me  and  left  me  faint 
Beyond  the  lot  of  man. 

Until  each  sigh  must  be  my  last,  I  thought. 

Yet  still  this  longing  wrought 
So  much  of  torment  for  my  soul  to  bear, 

That  with  the  pang  I  swooned  and  fell  to  earth. 
Then,  as  in  trance,  't  was  whispered  at  mine  ear, 

How  in  this  constant  girth 


Dante  Alighieri.  83 


Of  anguish,  I  indeed  at  length  must  die  : 
So  that  I  dreaded  Love  continually. 

Master,  thou  knowest  now 
The  life  which  in  thy  service  I  have  borne  : 

Not  that  I  tell  it  thee  to  disallow 
Control,  who  still  to  thy  behest  am  sworn. 

Yet  if  through  this  my  vow 
I  remain  dead,  nor  help  they  will  confer. 
Do  thou  at  least,  for  God's  sake,  pardon  her. 

VII. 

Canzone. 

He  beseeches  Death  for  the  Life  of  Beatrice. 

Death,  since  I  find  not  one  with  whom  to  grieve, 
Nor  whom  this  grief  of  mine  may  move  to  tears, 
Whereso  I  be  or  whitherso  I  turn  : 
Since  it  is  thou  who  in  my  soul  wilt  leave 
No  single  joy,  but  chill'st  it  with  just  fears 
And  makest  it  in  fruitless  hopes  to  burn  : 
Since  thou.  Death,  and  thou  only,  canst  discern 
Wealth  to  my  life,  or  want,  at  thy  free  choice  :  — 
It  is  to  thee  that  I  lift  up  my  voice. 

Bowing  my  face  that 's  Hke  a  face  just  dead. 
I  come  to  thee,  as  to  one  pitying. 
In  grief  for  that  sweet  rest  which  nought  can  bring 

Again,  if  thou  but  once  be  entered 
Into  her  life  whom  my  heart  cherishes 
Even  as  the  only  portal  of  its  peace. 

Death,  how  most  sweet  the  peace  is  that  thy  grace 
Can  grant  to  me,  and  that  I  pray  thee  for, 
Thou  easily  mayst  know  by  a  sure  sign, 
If  in  mine  eyes  thou  look  a  little  space 
And  read  in  them  the  hidden  dread  they  store,  — 
If  upon  all  thou  look  which  proves  me  thine. 
Since  the  fear  only  maketh  me  to  pine 
After  this  sort,  — what  wilLmine  anguish  be 
When  her  eyes  close,  of  dreadful  verity, 

In  whose  light  is  the  light  of  mine  own  eyes  ì 
But  now  I  know  that  thou  wouldst  have  my  life 
As  hers,  and  joy'st  thee  in  my  fruitless  strife. 

Yet  I  do  think  this  which  I  feel  implies 
That  soon,  when  I  would  die  to  flee  from  pain, 
I  shall  find  none  by  whom  I  may  be  slain. 


84  Dante  Alighieri 


Death,  if  indeed  thou  smite  this  gentle  one 

Whose  outward  worth  but  tells  the  intellect 
How  wondrous  is  the  miracle  within, — 
Thou  biddest  Virtue  rise  up  and  begone, 

Thou  dost  away  with  Mercy's  best  effect, 

Thou  spoil'st  the  mansion  of  God's  sojourning; 
Yea,  unto  nought  her  beauty  thou>dost  bring 
Which  is  above  all  other  beauties,  even 
In  so  much  as  betitteth  one  whom  Heaven 

Sent  upon  earth  in  token  of  its  own. 
Thou  dost  break  through  the  perfect  trust  which  hath 
Been  alway  her  companion  in  Love's  path  : 

The  light  once  darkened  which  was  hers  alone, 
Love  needs  must  say  to  them  he  ruleth  o'er, 
*'  I  have  lost  the  noble  banner  that  I  bore." 

Death,  have  some  pity  then  for  all  the  ill 

Which  cannot  choose  but  happen  if  she  die, 
And  which  will  be  the  sorest  ever  know^n. 
Slacken  the  string,  if  so  it  be  thy  will. 

That  the  sharp  arrow  leave  it  not,  — thereby 
Sparing  her  life,  which  if  it  flies  is  flown. 
O  Death,  for  God's  sake,  be  some  pity  shown  ! 
Restrain  within  thyself,  even  at  its  height. 
The  cruel  wrath  which  moveth  thee  to  smite 

Her  in  whom  God  hath  set  so  much  of  grace. 
Show  now  some  ruth  if  't  is  a  thing  thou  hast  ! 
I  seem  to  see  Heaven's  gate,  that  is  shut  fast. 

Open,  and  angels  filling  all  the  space 
About  me,  —  come  to  fetch  her  soul  whose  laud 
Is  sung  by  saints  and  angels  before  God. 

Song,  thou  must  surely  see  how  fine  a  thread 
This  is  that  my  last  hope  is  holden  by. 

And  what  I  should  be  brought  to  without  her. 
Therefore  for  thy  plain  speech  and  low^lihead 
Make  thou  no  pause  :  but  go  immediately 
(Knowing  thyself  for  my  heart's  minister), 
And  with  that  very  meek  and  piteous  air 
Thou  hast,  stand  up  before  the  face  of  Death, 
To  wrench  away  the  bar  that  prisoneth 
And  win  unto  the  place  of  the  good  fruit. 
And  if  indeed  thou  shake  by  thy  soft  voice 
Death's  mortal  purpose,  —  haste  thee  and  rejoice 

Our  lady  with  the  issue  of  thy  suit. 
So  yet  awhile  our  earthly  nights  and  days 
Shall  keep  the  blessed  spirit  that  I  praise. 


Dante  AligJiieri.  85 


Vili. 

Sonnet. 
On  the  <^th  of  June,  1 290. 

Upon  a  day,  came  Sorrow  in  to  me, 

Saying,  "  I  've  come  to  stay  with  thee  a  while  ;  " 

And  I  perceived  that  she  had  ushered  Bile 
And  Pain  into  my  house  for  company. 
Wherefore  I  said,  "  Go  forth  — away  with  thee  !  " 

But  like  a  Greek  she  answered,  full  of  guile, 

And  went  on  arguing  in  an  easy  style. 
Then,  looking,  I  saw  Love  come  silently, 
Habited  in  black  raiment,  smooth  and  new, 

Having  a  black  hat  set  upon  his  hair; 
And  certainly  the  tears  he  shed  were  true. 

So  that  I  asked,  "  What  ails  thee,  trifler  ?" 
Answering  he  said  :  "  A  grief  to  be  gone  through  ; 

For  our  own  lady  's  dying,  brother  dear." 


IX. 
TO   CINO    DA   PISTOIA. 

Sonnet. 
He  rebukes  Cinofor  Fickleness. 

I  THOUGHT  to  be  for  ever  separate. 

Fair  Master  Cino,  from  these  rhymes  of  yours  ; 

Since  further  from  the  coast,  another  course. 
My  vessel  now  must  journey  with  her  freight. ^ 
Yet  still,  because  I  hear  men  name  your  state 

As  his  whom  every  lure  doth  straight  beguile, 

I  pray  you  lend  a  very  little  while 
Unto  my  voice  your  ear  grown  obdurate. 
The  man  after  this  measure  amorous. 

Who  still  at  his  own  will  is  bound  and  loosed. 
How  slightly  Love  him  wounds  is  lightly  known. 
If  on  this  wise  your  heart  in  homage  bows, 

I  pray  you  for  God's  sake  it  be  disused. 

So  that  the  deed  and  the  sweet  words  be  one. 

^  This  might  seem  to  suggest  that  the  present  sonnet  was  written  about  the  same 
time  as  the  close  of  the  Vita  Nuova,  and  that  an  allusion  may  also  here  be  intended 
to  the  first  conception  of  Dante's  great  work. 


86  Dante  Alighieri. 


GINO   DA  PISTOIA   TO    DANTE   ALIGHIERI. 

Sonnet. 

He  answers  Dante,  co7ifessing  his  tuisteadfast  heart. 

Dante,  since  I  from  my  own  native  place 

In  heavy  exile  have  turned  wanderer, 

Far  distant  from  the  purest  joy  which  e'er 
Had  issued  from  the  Fount  of  joy  and  grace, 
I  have  gone  weeping  through  the  world's  dull  space, 

And  me  proud  Death,  as  one  too  mean,  doth  spare  ; 

Yet  meeting  Love,  Death's  neighbor,  I  declare 
That  still  his  arrows  hold  my  heart  in  chase. 
Nor  from  his  pitiless  aim  can  I  get  free, 

Nor  from  the  hope  which  comforts  my  weak  will, 
Though  no  true  aid  exists  which  I  could  share. 
One  pleasure  ever  binds  and  looses  me; 

That  so,  by  one  same  Beauty  lured,  I  still 
Delight  in  many  women  here  and  there. 


X. 

TO   GINO    DA   PISTOIA. 

Sonnet. 

Written  in  Exile. 

Because  I  find  not  whom  to  speak  withal 

Anent  that  lord  whose  I  am  as  thou  art, 

Behoves  that  in  thine  ear  I  tell  some  part 
Of  this  whereof  I  gladly  would  say  all. 
And  deem  thou  nothing  else  occasional 

Of  my  long  silence  while  I  kept  apart. 

Except  this  place,  so  guilty  at  the  heart 
That  the  right  has  not  who  will  give  it  stall. 
Love  comes  not  here  to  any  woman's  face, 

Nor  any  man  here  for  his  sake  will  sigh. 

For  unto  such,  "  Thou  fool  !  "  were  straightway  said. 
Ah  !  Master  Gino,  how  the  time  turns  base, 

And  mocks  at  us,  and  on  our  rhymes  says  "  Fie  !  " 
Since  truth  has  been  thus  thinly  harvested. 


Dante  A  lighieri.  8 7 


GINO    DA   PISTOIA   TO    DANTE   ALIGHIERI. 

Sonnet. 

He  answers  the  foregoing  Somiet^  and  prays  Dante,  in  the 
name  of  Beatrice,  to  continue  his  great  Poem. 

I  KNOW  not,  Dante,  in  what  refuge  dwells 
The  truth,  which  with  all  men  is  out  of  mind  ; 
For  long  ago  it  left  this  place  behind, 

Till  in  its  stead  at  last  God's  thunder  swells. 

Yet  if  our  shifting  life  most  clearly  tells 

That  here  the  truth  has  no  reward  assign'd,  — 
'T  was  God,  remember,  taught  it  to  mankind, 

And  even  among  the  fiends  preached  nothing  else. 

Then,  though  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth  be  torn, 
Where'er  thou  set  thy  feet,  from  Truth's  control, 
Yet  unto  me  thy  friend  this  prayer  accord  :  — 

Beloved,  O  my  brother,  sorrow-worn, 

Even  in  that  lady's  name  who  is  thy  goal, 
Sing  on  till  thou  redeem  thy  plighted  word  !  ^ 


XL 

Sonnet. 
Of  Beauty  and  Duty. 

Two  ladies  to  the  summit  of  my  mind 
Have  clomb,  to  hold  an  argument  of  love. 
The  one  has  wisdom  with  her  from  above. 

For  every  noblest  virtue  well  designed  : 

The  other,  beauty's  tempting  power  refined 
And  the  high  charm  of  perfect  grace  approve  : 
And  I,  as  my  sweet  Master's  will  doth  move, 

At  feet  of  both  their  favors  am  reclined. 

Beauty  and  Duty  in  my  soul  keep  strife, 

At  question  if  the  heart  such  course  can  take 
And  'twixt  two  ladies  hold  its  love  complete. 
The  fount  of  gentle  speech  yields  answer  meet, 
That  Beauty  may  be  loved  for  gladness'  sake, 

And  Duty  in  the  lofty  ends  of  life. 

1  That  is,  the  pledge  given  at  the  end  of  the  Vita  Nuova.  This  may  perhaps 
have  been  written  in  "the  early  days  of  Dante's  exile,  before  his  resumption  of  the 
interrupted  Commedia. 


Dante  Alighieri. 


XII. 

Sestina.^ 

Of  the  Lady  Pietra  degli  Scrovigni. 

To  the  dim  light  and  the  large  circle  of  shade 

I  have  clomb,  and  to  the  whitening  of  the  hills, 

There  where  we  see  no  color  in  the  grass. 

Nathless  ni}-  longing  loses  not  its  green, 

It  has  so  taken  root  in  the  hard  stone 

Which  talks  and  hears  as  though  it  were  a  lady. 

Utterly  frozen  is  this  youthful  lady. 

Even  as  the  snow  that  lies  within  the  shade; 

For  she  is  no  more  moved  than  is  the  stone 

By  the  sweet  season  which  makes  warm  the  hills 

And  alters  them  afresh  from  white  to  green. 

Covering  their  sides  again  with  flow^ers  and  grass. 

When  on  her  hair  she  sets  a  crown  of  grass 
The  thought  has  no  more  room  for  other  lady  ; 
Because  she  weaves  the  yellow  wdth  the  green 
So  well  that  Love  sits  down  there  in  the  shade, — 
Love  who  has  shut  me  in  among  low  hills 
Faster  than  between  walls  of  granite-stone; 

She  is  more  bright  than  is  a  precious  stone; 

The  wound  she  gives  may  not  be  healed  with  grass  : 

I  therefore  have  fled  far  o'er  plains  and  hills 

For  refuge  from  so  dangerous  a  lady  : 

But  from  her  sunshine  nothing  can  give  shade, — 

Not  any  hill,  nor  wall,  nor  summer-green. 

A  while  ago,  I  saw  her  dressed  in  green,  — 
So  fair,  she  might  have  wakened  in  a  stone 
This  love  which  I  do  feel  even  for  her  shade  ; 
And  therefore,  as  one  woos  a  graceful  lady, 
I  wooed  her  in  a  field  that  was  all  grass 
Girdled  about  with  very  lofty  hills. 

1  I  have  translated  this  piece  both  on  account  of  its  great  and  peculiar  beauty,  and 
also  because  it  affords  an  example  of  a  form  of  composition  wliich  I  have  met  -with  in 
no  Italian  writer  before  Dante's  time,  though  it  is  not  uncommon  among  the  Pro- 
vencal poets  (see  Dante,  Z>^  Vidg.  Etoq.).  I  have  headed  it  wdth  the  name  of  a 
Paduan  lady,  to  whom  it  is  surmised  by  some  to  have  been  addressed  during  Dante's 
exile  :  but  this  must  be  looked  upon'  as  a  rather  doubtful  conjecture,  and  1  have 
adopted  the  name  chiefly  to  mark  it  at  once  as  not  referring  to  Beatrice. 


Dante  Alighieri.  89 


Yet  shall  the  streams  turn  back  and  climb  the  hills 
Before  Love's  flame  in  this  damp  wood  and  green 
Burn,  as  it  burns  within  a  youthful  lady, 
For  my  sake,  who  would  sleep  away  in  stone 
My  life,  or  feed  like  beasts  upon  the  grass, 
Only  to  see  her  garments  cast  a  shade. 

How  dark  soe'er  the  hills  throw  out  their  shade, 
Under  her  summer-green  the  beautiful  lady 
Covers  it,  like  a  stone  covered  in  grass. 


XIII. 

Sonnet. 1 

A  Ctirse  for  a  fruitless  Love. 

My  curse  be  on  the  day  when  first  I  saw 

The  brightness  in  those  treacherous  eyes  of  thine,  — 

The  hour  when  from  my  heart  thou  cam'st  to  draw 
My  soul  away,  that  both  might  fail  and  pine  : 
My  curse  be  on  the  skill  that  smooth'd  each  line 

Of  my  vain  songs,  —  the  music  and  just  law 
Of  art,  by  which  it  was  my  dear  design 

That  the  whole  world  should  yield  thee  love  and  awe 

Yea,  let  me  curse  mine  own  obduracy, 

Which  firmly  holds  what  doth  itself  confound  — 
To  wit,  thy  fair  perverted  face  of  scorn  : 
For  whose  sake  Love  is  oftentimes  forsworn 

So  that  men  mock  at  him  :  but  most  at  me 

Who  would  hold  fortune's  wheel  and  turn  it  round. 

^  I  have  separated  this  sonnet  from  the  pieces  bearing  on  the  Vita  Nuova,  as  it  is 
naturally  repugnant  to  connect  it  with  Beatrice.  1  cannot,  however,  but  think  it 
possible  that  it  may  have  been  the  bitter  fruit  of  some  bitterest  moment  in  those  hours 
when  Dante  endured  her  scorn. 


GUIDO   CAVALCANTI. 


TO   DANTE   ALIGHIERI. 

Sonnet. 

He  interprets  Dante'' s  Drea?n,  related  in  the  first  Sonnet 
of  the  Vita  Nuova.  ^ 

Unto  my  thinking,  thou  beheld'st  all  worth. 
All  joy,  as  much  of  good  as  man  may  know, 
If  thou  wert  in  his  power  who  here  below 

Is  honor's  righteous  lord  throughout  this  earth. 

Where  evil  dies,  even  there  he  has  his  birth, 
Whose  justice  out  of  pity's  self  doth  grow. 
Softly  to  sleeping  persons  he  will  go. 

And,  with  no  pain  to  them,  their  hearts  draw  forth. 

Thy  heart  he  took,  as  knowing  well,  alas  ! 
That  Death  had  claimed  thy  lady  for  a  prey  : 
In  fear  whereof,  he  fed  her  with  thy  heart. 
But  when  he  seemed  in  sorrow  to  depart, 
Sweet  was  thy  dream  ;  for  by  that  sign,  I  say, 

Surely  the  opposite  shall  come  to  pass.^ 

1  See  the  Vita  Nuova,  at  page  28. 

2  This  may  refer  to  the  belief  that,  towards  morning,  dreams  go  by  contraries. 


Guido  Cavalcanti. 


II. 

Sonnet. 
To  his  Lady  Joan^  of  Florence. 

Flowers  hast  thou  in  thyself,  and  foliage, 

And  what  is  good,  and  what  is  glad  to  see  ; 
The  sun  is  not  so  bright  as  thy  visage  ; 

All  is  stark  nought  when  one  hath  looked  on  thee 
There  is  not  such  a  beautiful  personage 

Anywhere  on  the  green  earth  verily  ; 
If  one  fear  love,  thy  bearing  sweet  and  sage 

Comforteth  him,  and  no  more  fear  hath  he. 
Thy  lady  friends  and  maidens  ministering 

Are  all,  for  love  of  thee,  much  to  my  taste  : 
And  much  I  pray  them  that  in  everything 

They  honor  thee  even  as  thou  meritest. 
And  have  thee  in  their  gentle  harboring  : 

Because  among  them  all  thou  art  the  best. 


III. 

Sonnet. 

He  compares  all  Things  with  his  Lady,  and  finds  the7n 
ivanting. 

Beauty  in  woman  ;  the  high  will's  decree  : 

Fair  knighthood  armed  for  manly  exercise  ; 

The  pleasant  song  of  birds  ;  love's  soft  replies  ; 
The  strength  of  rapid  ships  upon  the  sea; 
The  serene  air  when  light  begins  to  be  ; 

The  white  snow,  without  wind  that  falls  and  lies  ; 

Fields  of  all  flower  ;  the  place  where  waters  rise  ; 
Silver  and  gold  ;  azure  in  jewellery  :  — 
Weighed  against  these,  the  sweet  and  quiet  worth 

Which  my  dear  lady  cherishes  at  heart 
Might  seem  a  little  matter  to  be  shown  ; 

Being  truly,  over  these,  as  much  apart 
As  the  whole  heaven  is  greater  than  this  earth. 
All  good  to  kindred  natures  cleaveth  soon. 


92  Guido  Cavalcanti. 


IV. 

Sonnet. 
A  Rapture  concerning  his  Lady. 

Who  is  she  coming,  whom  all  gaze  upon, 

Who  makes  the  air  all  tremulous  with  light, 
And  at  whose  side  is  Love  himself  ì  that  none 

Dare  speak,  but  each  man's  sighs  are  infinite. 

Ah  me  !  how  she  looks  round  from  left  to  right, 
Let  Love  discourse  :   I  may  not  speak  thereon. 
Lady  she  seems  of  such  high  benison 

As  makes  all  others  graceless  in  men's  sight. 
The  honor  which  is  hers  cannot  be  said  ; 

To  whom  are  subject  all  things  virtuous, 
While  all  things  beauteous  own  her  deity. 
Ne'er  was  the  mind  of  man  so  nobly  led, 

Nor  yet  was  such  redemption  granted  us 
That  we  should  ever  know  her  perfectly. 


V. 

Ballata. 

Of  his  Lady  among  other  Ladies. 

With  other  women  I  beheld  my  love  ;  — 

Not  that  the  rest  were  women  to  mine  eyes. 
Who  only  as  her  shadows  seemed  to  move. 

I  do  not  praise  her  more  than  with  the  truth, 
Nor  blame  I  these  if  it  be  rightly  read. 

But  while  I  speak,  a  thought  I  may  not  soothe 
Says  to  my  senses  :  ''  Soon  shall  ye  be  dead, 
If  for  my  sake  your  tears  ye  will  not  shed." 

And  then  the  eyes  yield  passage,  at  that  thought, 
To  the  heart's  weeping,  which  forgets  her  not. 


Guido  Orlandi.  93 


VI. 
TO   GUIDO    ORLANDI.  .    . 

Sonnet. 
Of  a  consecrated  Image  reseitibling  his  Lady. 

Guido,  an  image  of  my  lady  dwells 

At  San  Michele  in  Orto,  consecrate 

And  duly  worshipped.     Fair  in  holy  state 
She  listens  to  the  tale  each  sinner  tells  : 
And  among  them  that  come  to  her,  who  ails 

The  most,  on  him  the  most  doth  blessing  wait. 

She  bids  the  fiend  men's  bodies  abdicate  ; 
Over  the  curse  of  blindness  she  prevails. 
And  heals  sick  languors  in  the  public  squares. 

A  multitude  adores  her  reverently  : 

Before  her  face  two  burning  tapers  are  ; 
Her  voice  is  uttered  upon  paths  afar. 

Yet  through  the  Lesser  Brethren's  ^  jealousy 
She  is  named  idol  ;  not  being  one  of  theirs. 


GUIDO   ORLANDI    TO   GUIDO   CAVALCANTI. 

Madrigal. 

In  answer  to  the  foregoing  Sonnet. 

If  thou  hadst  offered,  friend,  to  blessed  Mary 
A  pious  voluntary, 
As  thus  :  "  Fair  rose,  in  holy  garden  set  :  " 
Thou  then  hadst  found  a  true  similitude  : 
Because  all  truth  and  good 
Are  hers,  who  was  the  mansion  and  the  gate 
Wherein  abode  our  High  Salvation, 
Conceived  in  her,  a  Son, 
Even  by  the  angel's  greeting  whom  she  met. 
Be  thou  assured  that  if  one  cry  to  her. 
Confessing,  "  I  did  err," 
For  death  she  gives  him  life  ;  for  she  is  great. 

*  The  Franciscans,  in  profession  of   deeper  poverty  and  humility  than  belonged  to 
other  Orders,  called  themselves  Fratres  tninores. 


94  Guido  Cavalca7iti. 


Ah  !  how  mayst  thou  be  counselled  to  implead 

With  God  thine  own  misdeed, 
And  not  another's  ?     Ponder  what  thou  art  ; 

And  humbly  lay  to  heart 
That  Publican  who  wept  his  proper  need. 
The  Lesser  Brethren  cherish  the  divine 

Scripture  and  church-doctrine  ; 
Being  appointed  keepers  of  the  faith 

Whose  preaching  succoreth  : 
For  what  they  preach  is  our  best  medicine. 


VII. 

Sonnet. 

Of  the  Eyes  of  a  certain  Mandetta,  of  Thoulouse^  which 
resemble  those  of  his  Lady  Joan,  of  Florence. 

A  CERTAIN  youthful  lady  in  Thoulouse, 
Gentle  and  fair,  of  cheerful  modesty, 
Is  in  her  eyes,  with  such  exact  degree, 

Of  likeness  unto  mine  own  lady,  whose 

I  am,  that  through  the  heart  she  doth  abuse 
The  soul  to  sweet  desire.     It  goes  from  me 
To  her;  yet,  fearing,  saith  not  who  is  she 

That  of  a  truth  its  essence  thus  subdues. 

This  lady  looks  on  it  with  the  sweet  eyes 

Whose  glance  did  erst  the  wounds  of  Love  anoint 
Through  its  true  lady's  eyes  which  are  as  they. 

Then  to  the  heart  returns  it,  full  of  sighs, 
Wounded  to  death  by  a  sharp  arrow's  point 
Wherewith  this  lady  speeds  it  on  its  way. 


VIII. 

Ballata. 

He  reveals,  in  a  Dialogue,  his  i?icreasing  Love  for  Mandetta, 

Being  in  thought  of  love,  I  chanced  to  see 
Two  youthful  damozels. 
One  sang  :  "  Our  hfe  inhales 
All  love  continually." 


Guido  Cavalcanti.  95 


Their  aspect  was  so  utterly  serene, 

So  courteous,  of  such  quiet  nobleness, 
That  I  said  to  them  :  "Yours,  I  may  well  ween, 
'Tis  of  all  virtue  to  unlock  the  place. 
Ah  !  damozels,  do  not  account  him  base 
Whom  thus  his  wound  subdues  : 
Since  I  was  at  Thoulouse, 
My  heart  is  dead  in  me." 

They  turned  their  eyes  upon  me  in  so  much 

As  to  perceive  how  wounded  was  my  heart; 
While,  of  the  spirits  born  of  tears,  one  such 

Had  been  begotten  through  the  constant  smart. 
Then  seeing  me,  abashed,  to  turn  apart, 
One  of  them  said,  and  laugh'd  : 
"  Love,  look  you,  by  his  craft 

Holds  this  man  thoroughly." 

But  with  grave  sweetness,  after  a  brief  while, 

She  who  at  first  had  laughed  on  me  replied, 
Saying  :  "  This  lady,  who  by  Love's  great  guile 
Her  countenance  in  thy  heart  has  glorified, 
Look'd  thee  so  deep  within  the  eyes.  Love  sigh'd 
And  was  awakened  there. 
If  it  seem  ill  to  bear, 

In  him  thy  hope  must  be." 


The  second  piteous  maiden,  of  all  ruth. 

Fashioned  for  sport  in  Love's  own  image,  said  : 
"This  stroke,  whereof  thy  heart  bears  trace  in  sooth, 
From  eyes  of  too  much  puissance  was  shed. 
Whence  in  thy  heart  such  brightness  entered, 
Thou  mayst  not  look  thereon. 
Say,  of  those  eyes  that  shone 

Canst  thou  remember  thee  ?  " 


Then  said  I,  yielding  answer  therewithal 

Unto  this  virgin's  difficult  behest: 
"  A  lady  of  Thoulouse,  whom  Love  doth  call 
Mandetta,  sweetly  kirtled  and  enlac'd, 
I  do  remember  to  my  sore  unrest. 
Yea,  by  her  eyes  indeed 
My  life  has  been  decreed 
To  death  inevitably." 


96  Dante  Alighieri. 


Go,  Ballad,  to  the  city,  even  Thoulouse, 

And  softly  entering  the  Dauràde,i  look  round 
And  softly  call,  that  so  there  may  be  found 
Some  lady  who  for  complaisance  may  choose 
To  show  thee  her  w^io  can  my  life  confuse. 
And  if  she  yield  thee  way, 
Lift  thou  thy  voice  and  say  : 

"  For  grace  I  come  to  thee." 


DANTE   ALIGHIERI   TO    GUIDO    CAVALCANTI. 


X^ 


Sonnet. 

He  i?nagÌ7ies  a  pleasa7it  Voyage  for  Guido^  Lapo  Gianni^  and 
hiuiself,  with  their  three  Ladies. 

Guido,  I  wish  that  Lapo,  thou,  and  I, 

Could  be  by  spells  conveyed,  as  it  were  now, 
Upon  a  barque,  with  all  the  winds  that  blow 

Across  all  seas  at  our  good  will  to  hie. 

So  no  mischance  nor  temper  of  the  sky 

Should  mar  our  course  with  spite  or  cruel  slip, 
But  we,  observing  old  companionship, 

To  be  companions  still  should  long  thereby. 

And  Lady  Joan,  and  Lady  Beatrice, 

And  her  the  thirtieth  on  my  roll,^  with  us 

Should  our  good  wizard  set,  o'er  seas  to  move 
And  not  to  talk  of  anything  but  love  : 

And  they  three  ever  to  be  w^ell  at  ease. 

As  we  should  be,  I  think,  if  this  were  thus. 

*  The  ancient  church  of  the  Dauràde  still  exists  at  Thoiilouse.  It  was  so  called  from 
the  golden  effect  of  the  mosaics  adorning  it. 

2  That  is,  his  list  of  the  sixty  most  beautiful  ladies  of  Florence,  referred  to  in  the 
Vita  Nuova  ;  among  whom  Lapo  Gianni's  lady,  Lagia,  would  seem  to  have  stood 
thirtieth. 


Giudo  Cavalcaìiii.  97 


IX. 

TO    DANTE   ALIGHIERI. 

Sonnet. 

Guido  answers  the  foregoing  Sonnet,  speaking  with  shame 
of  his  changed  Love. 

If  I  were  still  that  man,  worthy  to  love, 

Of  whom  I  have  but  the  remembrance  now. 
Or  if  the  lady  bore  another  brow, 

To  hear  this  thing  might  bring  me  joy  thereof. 

But  thou,  who  in  Love's  proper  court  dost  move, 
Even  there  where  hope  is  born  of  grace,  —  see  how 
My  very  soul  within  me  is  brought  low  : 

For  a  swift  archer,  whom  his  feats  approve. 

Now  bends  the  bow,  which  Love  to  him  did  yield, 
In  such  mere  sport  against  me,  it  would  seem 
As  though  he  held  his  lordship  for  a  jest, 
Then  hear  the  marvel  which  is  sorriest  :  — 
My  sorely  wounded  soul  forgiveth  him. 

Yet  knows  that  in  his  act  her  strength  is  kill'd. 

X. 

TO    DANTE   ALIGHIERI. 

Sonnet. 

He  reports^  in  a  feigned  Vision,  the  successful  Issue  of 
Lapo  GiannVs  Love. 

Dante,  a  sigh  that  rose  from  the  heart's  core 

Assailed  me,  while  I  slumbered,  suddenly  : 
So  that  I  woke  o'  the  instant,  fearing  sore 

Lest  it  came  thither  in  Love's  company: 
Till,  turning,  I  beheld  the  servitor 

Of  Lady  Lagia  :  "  Help  me,"  so  said  he, 
"  O  help  me.  Pity."     Though  he  said  no  more, 

So  much  of  Pity's  essence  entered  me, 
That  I  was  ware  of  Love,  those  shafts  he  wields 

A-whetting,  and  preferred  the  mourner's  quest 
To  him,  who  straightway  answered  on  this  wise: 
"  Go  tell  my  servant  that  the  lady  yields. 

And  that  I  hold  her  now  at  his  behest  : 
If  he  believe  not,  let  him  note  her  eyes." 

7 


98  Guido  Cavalca7iti. 

XI. 

TO    DANTE   ALIGHIERI. 

Sonnet. 

He  mistrusts  the  Love  of  Lapo  Gianni. 

I  PRAY  thee,  Dante,  shouldst  thou  meet  with  Love 

In  any  place  where  Lapo  then  may  be, 

That  there  thou  fail  not  to  mark  heedfully 
If  Love  with  lover's  name  that  man  approve  ; 
If  to  our  Master's  will  his  lady  move 

Aright,  and  if  himself  show  fealty  : 

For  ofttimes,  by  ill  custom,  ye  may  see 
This  sort  profess  the  semblance  of  true  love. 
Thou  know'st  that  in  the  court  where  Love  holds  sway 

A  law  subsists,  that  no  man  who  is  vile 

Can  service  yield  to  a  lost  woman  there. 
If  suffering  aught  avail  the  sufferer, 

Thou  straightway  shalt  discern  our  lofty  style, 
Which  needs  the  badge  of  honor  must  display. 

XII. 

Sonnet. 
On  the  Detection  of  a  false  Friend}- 

Love  and  the  Lady  Lagia,  Guido  and  I, 

Unto  a  certain  lord  are  bounden  all, 

Who  has  released  us  —  know  ye  from  whose  thrall? 
Yet  I  '11  not  speak,  but  let  the  matter  die  : 
Since  now  these  three  no  more  are  held  thereby, 

Who  in  such  homage  at  his  feet  did  fall 

That  I  myself  was  not  more  whimsical. 
In  him  conceiving  godship  from  on  high. 
Let  Love  be  thanked  the  first,  who  first  discern'd 

The  truth  ;  and  that  wise  lady  afterward. 
Who  in  fit  time  took  back  her  heart  again  ; 
And  Guido  next,  from  worship  wholly  turn'd  ; 

And  I,  as  he.     But  if  ye  have  not  heard, 
I  shall  not  tell  how  much  I  loved  him  then. 

*  I  should  think,  from  the  mention  of  Lady  Lagia,  that  this  might  refer  again  to 
Lapo  Gianni,  who  seems  (one  knows  not  why)  to  have  fallen  into  disgrace  with  his 
friends.     The  Guido  mentioned  is  probably  Guido  Orlandi. 


Guido  Cavalcanti.  99 


XIII. 

Sonnet. 

He  speaks  of  a  third  Love  of  his. 

O  THOU  that  often  hast  within  thine  eyes 

A  Love  who  holds  three  shafts,  —  know  thou  from  me 
That  this  my  sonnet  would  commend  to  thee 

(Come  from  afar)  a  soul  in  heavy  sighs, 

Which  even  by  Love's  sharp  arrow  wounded  lies. 
Twice  did  the  Syrian  archer  shoot,  and  he 
Now  bends  his  bow  the  third  time,  cunningly, 

That,  thou  being  here,  he  wound  me  in  no  wise. 

Because  the  soul  would  quicken  at  the  core 
Thereby,  which  now  is  near  to  utter  death, 

From  those  two  shafts,  a  triple  wound  that  yield. 
The  first  gives  pleasure,  yet  disquieteth  ; 

And  with  the  second  is  the  longing  for 

The  mighty  gladness  by  the  third  fulfill'd. 


XIV. 

Ballata. 

Of  a  continual  Death  in  Love. 

Though  thou,  indeed,  hast  quite  forgotten  ruth, 
Its  steadfast  truth  my  heart  abandons  not  ; 
But  still  its  thought  yields  service  in  good  part 
To  that  hard  heart  in  thee. 

Alas  !  who  hears  believes  not  I  am  so. 
Yet  who  can  know  ?  of  very  surety,  none. 
From  Love  is  won  a  spirit,  in  some  wise, 
Which  dies  perpetually  : 

And,  when  at  length  in  that  strange  ecstasy 

The  heavy  sigh  will  start. 

There  rains  upon  my  heart 

A  love  so  pure  and  fine, 
That  I  say  :  "  Lady,  I  am  wholly  thine."  1 

^  I  may  take  this  opportunity  of  mentioning  that,  in  even,'  case  where  an  abrupt 
change  of  metre  occurs  in  one  of  my  translations,  it  is  so  also  in  the  original  poem. 


lOO  Guido  Cavalcanti. 


XV. 

Sonnet. 
To  a  Friend  who  does  7iot  pity  his  Love. 

If  I  entreat  this  lady  that  all  grace 

Seem  not  unto  her  heart  an  enemy, 

Foolish  and  evil  thou  declarest  me, 
And  desperate  in  idle  stubbornness. 
Whence  is  such  cruel  judgment  thine,  whose  face, 

To  him  that  looks  thereon,  professeth  thee 

Faithful,  and  wise,  and  of  all  courtesy, 
And  made  after  the  way  of  gentleness  ? 
Alas  !  my  soul  within  my  heart  doth  find 

Sighs,  and  its  grief  by  weeping  doth  enhance, 

That,  drowned  in  bitter  tears,  those  sighs  depart  ^ 
And  then  there  seems  a  presence  in  the  mind,  ^ 

As  of  a  lady's  thoughtful  countenance  \ 

Come  to  behold  the  death  of  the  poor  heart. 


XVI. 

Ballata. 

He  perceives  that  his  highest  Love  is  gotte  frojn  him. 

Through  this  my  strong  and  new  misaventure, 

All  now  is  lost  to  me 
Which  most  was  sweet  in  Love's  supremacy. 

So  much  of  life  is  dead  in  its  control, 
That  she,  my  pleasant  lady  of  all  grace, 

Is  gone  out  of  the  devastated  soul  : 

I  see  her  not,  nor  do  I  know  her  place  ; 
Nor  even  enough  of  virtue  with  me  stays 
To  understand,  ah  me  ! 

The  flower  of  her  exceeding  purity. 

Because  there  comes  —  to  kill  that  gentle  thought 
With  saying  that  I  shall  not  see  her  more  — 

This  constant  pain  wherewith  I  am  distraught. 
Which  is  a  burning  torment  very  sore. 
Wherein  I  know  not  whom  I  should  implore. 
Thrice  thanked  the  Master  be 

Who  turns  the  grinding  wheel  of  misery  ! 


Guido  Ca^jdkanti.  loi 

Full  of  great  anguish  in  a  place  of  fear 

The  spirit  of  my  heart  lies  sorrowing, 
Through  Fortune's  bitter  craft.     She  lured  it  here, 

And  gave  it  o'er  to  Death,  and  barbed  the  sting; 

She  wrought  that  hope  which  was  a  treacherous  thing; 
In  Time,  which  dies  from  me, 
She  made  me  lose  mine  hour  of  ecstasy. 

For  you,  perturbed  and  fearful  words  of  mine, 
Whither  yourselves  may  please,  even  thither  go  ; 

But  always  burthened  with  shame's  troublous  sign, 
And  on  my  lady's  name  still  calling  low. 
For  me,  I  must  abide  in  such  deep  woe 
That  all  who  look  shall  see 

Death's  shadow  on  my  face  assuredly. 


XVII. 

Sonnet. 

Of  his  Pain  from  a  72  ew  Love. 

Why  from  the  danger  did  mine  eyes  not  start,  — 
Why  not  become  even  blind,  —  ere  through  my  sight 
Within  my  soul  thou  ever  couldst  alight 
To  say  :  "  Dost  thou  not  hear  me  in  thy  heart  ?  " 
New  torment  then,  the  old  torment's  counterpart. 

Filled  me  at  once  with  such  a  sore  affright. 

That,  Lady,  lady  (I  said),  destroy  not  quite 

Mine  eyes  and  me  !  O  help  us  where  thou  art  ! 

Thou  hast  so  left  mine  eyes,  that  love  is  fain  — 

Even  Love  himself  —  with  pity  uncontroll'd 

To  bend  above  them,  weeping  for  their  loss 


Saying  :  "  If  any  man  feel  heavy  pain,  ^^  VlV^^'w 


i^iiig  .       li  dny  viid.11  icci  iiCd.\/y  pain,  i 

This  man's  more  painful  heart  let  him  beh£rid:VU 
Death  has  it  in  her  hand,  cut  like^alàroàSìr' 


G'jtido.  Al/ani. 


GUIDO    ORLANDI    TO    GUIDO    CAVALCANTI. 

Prolonged  Sonnet. 
He  finds  fault  with  the  Conceits  of  the  foregoing  Sonnet. 

Friend,  well  I  know  thou  knowest  well  to  bear 

Thy  sword's-point,  that  it  pierce  the  close-locked  mail 
And  like  a  bird  to  flit  from  perch  to  pale  : 

And  out  of  difficult  ways  to  find  the  air  : 

Largely  to  take  and  generously  to  share  : 
Thrice  to  secure  advantage  :  to  regale 
Greatly  the  great,  and  over  lands  prevail. 

In  all  thou  art,  one  only  fault  is  there  : 

For  still  among  the  wise  of  wit  thou  say'st 

That  Love  himself  doth  weep  for  thine  estate  ; 
And  yet,  no  eyes  no  tears  :  lo  now,  thy  whim  ! 

Soft,  rather  say  :  This  is  not  held  in  haste  ; 
But  bitter  are  the  hours  and  passionate. 
To  him  that  loves,  and  love  is  not  for  him. 


For  me  (by  usage  strengthened  to  forbear 
From  carnal  love),  I  fall  not  in  such  snare. 


GIANNI    ALFANI    TO    GUIDO   CAVALCANTI. 

Sonnet. 1 
On  the  part  of  a  Lady  of  Pisa. 

Guido,  that  Gianni  who,  a  day  agone. 

Sought  thee,  now  greets  thee  (ay  and  thou  mayst  laugh!) 

On  that  same  Pisan  beauty's  sweet  behalf 
Who  can  deal  love-wounds  even  as  thou  hast  done. 
She  asked  me  whether  thy  good-will  were  prone 

For  service  unto  Love  who  troubles  her. 

If  she  to  thee  in  suchwise  should  repair 
That,  save  by  him  and  Gualtier,  't  were  not  known  :  — 
For  thus  her  kindred  of  ill  augury 

Should  lack  the  means  wherefrom  there  might  be  plann'd 
Worse  harm  than  lying  speech  that  smites  afar. 
I  told  her  that  thou  hast  continually 

A  goodly  sheaf  of  arrows  to  thy  hand, 

Which  well  should  stead  her  in  such  gentle  war. 

^  From  a  passage  in  Ubaldini's  Glossary  (1640)  to  the  "  Documenti  d'  Amore  "  of 
Francesco  Barberino  (1300),  I  judge  that  Guido  answered  the  above  sonnet,  and  that 
Alfani  made  a  rejoinder,  from  which  a  scrap  there  printed  appears  to  be  taken.  The 
whole  piece  existed,  in  Ubaldini's  time,  among  the  Strozzi  MSS. 


Guido  Cavalcanti.  103 


BERNARDO    DA   BOLOGNA    TO 
GUIDO    CAVALCANTI. 

Sonnet. 

He  writes  to  Guido ^  telling  hhn  of  the  Love  which  a  certain 
Pinella  showed  on  seeing  him. 

Unto  that  lowly  lovely  maid,  I  wis, 

So  poignant  in  the  heart  was  thy  salute. 

That  she  changed  countenance,  remaining  mute. 
Wherefore  I  asked  :  "  Pinella,  how  is  this  ? 
Hast  heard  of  Guido  ?  know'st  thou  who  he  is  ?  " 

She  answered,  "•  Yea  ;  "  then  paused,  irresolute  ; 

But  I  saw  well  how  the  love-wounds  acute 
Were  widened,  and  the  star  which  Love  calls  his 
Filled  her  with  gentle  brightness  perfectly. 

"  But,  friend,  an  't  please  thee,  I  would  have  it  told," 
She  said,  "  how  I  am  known  to  him  through  thee. 

Yet  since,  scarce  seen,  I  knew  his  name  of  old,  — 
Even  as  the  riddle  is  read,  so  must  it  be. 

Oh  !  send  him  love  of  mine  a  thousand-fold  !  " 


XVIII. 

TO    BERNARDO    DA   BOLOGNA.  -^ 

Sonnet. 

Guido  answers^  conwiending  Pinella,  and  saying  that  the  Love 
he  can  offer  her  is  already  shared  by  many  noble  Ladies. 

The  fountain-head  that  is  so  bright  to  see 

Gains  as  it  runs  in  virtue  and  in  sheen. 
Friend  Bernard  ;  and  for  her  who  spoke  with  thee, 

Even  such  the  flow  of  her  young  life  has  been  : 
So  that  when  Love  discourses  secretly 

Of  things  the  fairest  he  has  ever  seen, 
He  says  there  is  no  fairer  thing  than  she, 

A  lowdy  maid  as  lovely  as  a  queen. 
And  for  that  I  am  troubled,  thinking  of 

That  sigh  wherein  I  burn  upon  the  waves 

Which  drift  her  heart,  —  poor  barque,  so  ill-bestead  !  — 
Unto  Pinella  a  great  river  of  love 

I  send,  that 's  full  of  sirens,  and  whose  slaves 
Are  beautiful  and  richly  habited. 


I04  Guido  Cavalcaiiti. 

DINO    COMPAGNI    TO    GUIDO    CAVALCANTI. 

SOXXET. 

He  reproves  Guido  for  Ids  Arrogance  in  Love. 

No  man  may  mount  upon  a  golden  stair, 

Guido  my  master,  to  Love's  palace-sill  : 
No  key  of  gold  will  fit  the  lock  that 's  there, 

Nor  heart  there  enter  without  pure  good-will. 
Not  if  he  miss  one  courteous  duty,  dare 

A  lover  hope  he  should  his  love  fulfil  ; 
But  to  his  lady  must  make  meek  repair. 

Reaping  with  husbandry  her  favors  still. 
And  thou  but  know'st  of  Love  (I  think)  his  name  : 

Youth  holds  thy  reason  in  extremities  : 

Only  on  thine  own  face  thou  turn'st  thine  eyes  ; 
Fairer  than  Absalom's  account'st  the  same  ; 
And  think'st,  as  rosy  moths  are  drawn  by  flame, 

To  draw  the  women  from  their  balconies.^ 

XIX. 
TO    GUIDO    ORLANDI. 
Sonnet. 
In  praise  of  Guido  Orlandi' s  Lady. 

A  LADY  in  whom  love  is  manifest  — 

That  love  which  perfect  honor  doth  adorn  — 
Hath  ta'en  the  living  heart  out  of  thy  breast. 

Which  in  her  keeping  to  new  life  is  born  : 
For  there  by  such  sweet  power  it  is  possest 

As  even  is  felt  of  Indian  unicorn  :  ^ 
And  all  its  virtue  now,  with  fierce  unrest, 

Unto  thy  soul  makes  difficult  return. 
For  this  thy  lady  is  virtue's  minister 

In  suchwise  that  no  fault  there  is  to  show, 

Save  that  God  made  her  mortal  on  this  ground. 
And  even  herein  His  wisdom  shall  be  found  : 

For  only  thus  our  intellect  could  know 
That  heavenly  beauty  which  resembles  her. 

1  It  is  curious  to  find  these  poets  perpetually  ratine;  one  another  for  the  want  of 
constancy  in  love.  Guido  is  rebuked,  as  above,"  by  Dino  Compagni  ;  Gino  da  Pistoia 
by  Dante  (p.  85);  and  Dante  by  Guido  (p.  105)^  who  formerly,  as  we  have  seen 
(p.  98),  had  confided  to  him  his  doubts  of  Lapo  Gianni. 

2  In  old  representations,  the  unicorn  is  often  seen  with  his  head  in  a  virgin's  lap. 


Guido  Cavalcanti.  105 


GUIDO    ORLANDI    TO    GUIDO    CAVALCANTI. 

Sonnet. 

He  answers  the  foregoing  So7inet,  declaring  hÌ7n  self  his 
Ladys  Champion. 

To  sound  of  trumpet  rather  than  of  horn, 
I  in  Love's  name  would  hold  a  battle-play 
Of  gentlemen  in  arms  on  Easter  Day  ; 

And,  sailing  without  oar  or  wind,  be  borne 

Unto  my  joyful  beauty  ;  all  that  morn 

To  ride  round  her,  in  her  cause  seeking  fray 
Of  arms  with  all  but  thee,  friend,  who  dost  say 

The  truth  of  her,  and  whom  all  truths  adorn. 

And  still  I  pray  Our  Lady's  grace  above, 

Most  reverently,  that  she  whom  my  thoughts  bear 
In  sweet  remembrance  own  her  Lord  supreme. 

Holding  her  honor  dear,  as  doth  behove, — 
In  God  who  therewithal  sustaineth  her 
Let  her  abide,  and  not  depart  from  Him. 


XX. 

TO    DANTE     ALIGHIERI. 

Sonnet. 

He  rebukes  Dante  for  his  way  of  Life ^  after  the  Death 
of  Beatrice.^ 

I  COME  to  thee  by  daytime  constantly, 

But  in  thy  thoughts  too  much  of  baseness  find  : 
Greatly  it  grieves  me  for  thy  gentle  mind, 

And  for  thy  many  virtues  gone  from  thee. 

It  was  thy  wont  to  shun  much  company, 
Unto  all  sorry  concourse  ill  inclin'd  : 
And  still  thy  speech  of  me,  heartfelt  and  kind, 

Had  made  me  treasure  up  thy  poetry. 

But  now  I  dare  not,  for  thine  abject  life. 
Make  manifest  that  I  approve  thy  rhymes  ; 

Nor  come  I  in  such  sort  that  thou  mayst  know. 
Ah  !  prithee  read  this  sonnet  many  times  : 

So  shall  that  evil  one  who  bred  this  strife 

Be  thrust  from  thy  dishonored  soul  and  go. 

1  This  interesting  sonnet  must  refer  to  the  same  period  of  Dante's  life  regarding 
which  he  has  made  Beatrice  address  him  in  words  of  noble  reproach  when  he  meets 
her  in  Eden.     {Fitrg;.  C.  xxx.) 


io6  Guido  Cavalcanti. 

XXI. 

Ballata. 

Concerning  a  Shepherd-maid. 

Within  a  copse  I  met  a  shepherd-maid, 
More  fair,  I  said,  than  any  star  to  see. 

She  came  with  waving  tresses  pale  and  bright, 
With  rosy  cheer,  and  loving  eyes  of  flame, 

Guiding  the  lambs  beneath  her  wand  aright. 
Her  naked  feet  still  had  the  dews  on  them, 
As,  singing  like  a  lover,  so  she  came  ; 

Joyful,  and  fashioned  for  all  ecstasy. 

I  greeted  her  at  once,  and  question  made 

What  escort  had  she  through  the  woods  in  spring  ? 

But  with  soft  accents  she  replied  and  said 
That  she  was  all  alone  there,  wandering  ; 
Moreover  :  "  Do  you  know,  when  the  birds  sing. 

My  heart's  desire  is  for  a  mate,"  said  she. 

While  she  was  telling  me  this  wish  of  hers. 

The  birds  were  all  in  song  throughout  the  wood. 

"  Even  now  then,"  said  my  thought,  "  the  time  recurs, 
With  mine  own  longing  to  assuage  her  mood." 
And  so,  in  her  sweet  favor's  name,  I  sued 

That  she  would  kiss  there  and  embrace  with  me. 

She  took  my  hand  to  her  with  amorous  will, 
And  answered  that  she  gave  me  all  her  heart. 

And  drew  me  where  the  leaf  is  fresh  and  still. 

Where  spring  the  wood-flowers  in  the  shade  apart. 
And  on  that  day,  by  Joy's  enchanted  art. 

There  Love  in  very  presence  seemed  to  be.^ 

^  The  glossary  to  Barberino,  already  mentioned,  refers  to  the  existence,  among  the 
Strozzi  MSS.,  of  a  poem  by  Lapo  di  "Farinata  degli  Uberti,  \\TÌtten  in  answer  to  the 
above  ballata  of  Cavalcanti.  As  this  respondent  was  no  other  than  Gnido's  brother- 
in-law,  one  feels  curious  to  know  what  he  said  to  the  peccadilloes  of  his  sister's  hus- 
band. But  I  fear  the  poem  cannot  yet  have  been  published,  as  I  have  sought  for  it  in 
vain  at  all  my  printed  sources  of  information. 


Guido  Cavalcanti.  107 


XXII. 

Sonnet. 
Of  ail  ill-favored  Lady. 

Just  look,  Manetto,  at  that  wry-mouthed  minx  ; 

Merely  take  notice  what  a  wretch  it  is  ; 

How  well  contrived  in  her  deformities, 
How  beastly  favored  when  she  scowls  and  blinks. 
Why,  with  a  hood  on  (if  one  only  thinks) 

Or  mufitie  of  prim  veils  and  scapularies, — 

And  set  together,  on  a  day  like  this. 
Some  pretty  lady  with  the  odious  sphinx  ;  — 
Why,  then  thy  sins  could  hardly  have  such  weight, 

Nor  thou  be  so  subdued  from  Love's  attack. 
Nor  so  possessed  in  Melancholy's  sway, 
But  that  perforce  thy  peril  must  be  great 

Of  laughing  till  the  very  heart-strings  crack  : 
Either  thou  'dst  die,  or  thou  must  run  away. 


XXIII. 

TO    POPE    BONIFACE   VIII. 

Sonnet. 

After  the  Pope's  Interdict.,  when  the  great  Houses  were  leaving 
Florence. 

Nero,  thus  much  for  tidings  in  thine  ear. 

They  of  the  Buondelmonti  quake  with  dread, 

Nor  by  all  Florence  may  be  comforted, 
Noting  in  thee  the  lion's  ravenous  cheer  ; 
Who  more  than  any  dragon  giv'st  them  fear, 

In  ancient  evil  stubbornly  array 'd  ; 

Neither  by  bridge  nor  bulwark  to  be  stay'd, 
But  only  by  King  Pharaoh's  sepulchre. 
O  in  what  monstrous  sin  dost  thou  engage,  — 

All  these  which  are  of  loftiest  blood  to  drive 
Away,  that  none  dare  pause  but  all  take  wing  ! 
Yet  sooth  it  is,  thou  might'st  redeem  the  pledge 

Even  yet,  and  save  thy  naked  soul  alive, 
Wert  thou  but  patient  in  the  bargaining. 


io8  Giudo  Cavalcanti. 


XXIV. 

Ballata. 

In  Exile  at  Sarzana. 

Because  I  think  not  ever  to  return, 
Ballad,  to  Tuscany,  — 
Go  therefore  thou  for  me 
Straight  to  my  lady's  face, 
Who,  of  her  noble  grace, 
Shall  show  thee  courtesy. 

Thou  seekest  her  in  charge  of  many  sighs. 
Full  of  much  grief  and  of  exceeding  fear. 
But  have  good  heed  thou  come  not  to  the  eyes 
Of  such  as  are  sworn  foes  to  gentle  cheer  : 
For,  certes,  if  this  thing  should  chance,  —  from  her 

Thou  then  couldst  only  look 

For  scorn,  and  such  rebuke 

As  needs  must  bring  me  pain  ;  — 

Yea,  after  death  again" 

Tears  and  fresh  agony. 

Surely  thou  knowest,  Ballad,  how  that  Death 

Assails  me,  till  my  life  is  almost  sped  : 
Thou  knowest  how  my  heart  still  travaileth 

Through  the  sore  pangs  which  in  my  soul  are  bred  : 
My  body  being  now  so  nearly  dead. 

It  cannot  suffer  more. 

Then,  going,  I  implore 

That  this  my  soul  thou  take 

(Nay,  do  so  for  my  sake) 

When  my  heart  sets  it  free. 

Ah  !  Ballad,  unto  thy  dear  offices 

I  do  commend  my  soul,  thus  trembling; 
That  thou  mayst  lead  it,  for  pure  piteousness. 
Even  to  that  lady's  presence  whom  I  sing. 
Ah  !  Ballad,  say  thou  to  her,  sorrowing, 

Whereso  thou  meet  her  then  :  — 

"  This  thy  poor  handmaiden 

Is  come,  nor  will  be  gone. 

Being  parted  now  from  one 

Who  served  Love  painfully."' 


Guido  Cavalcanti.  109 


Thou  also,  thou  bewildered  voice  and  weak, 

That  goest  forth  in  tears  from  my  grieved  heart, 
Shalt,  with  my  soul  and  with  this  ballad,  speak 
Of  my  dead  mind,  when  thou  dost  hence  depart, 
Unto  that  lady  (piteous  as  thou  art  !) 

Who  is  so  calm  and  bright, 

It  shall  be  deep  delight 

To  feel  her  presence  there. 

And  thou,  Soul,  worship  her 

Still  in  her  purity. 


XXV. 
Canzone.1 

A  Song  of  Fortune. 

Lo  !  I  am  she  who  makes  the  wheel  to  turn; 
Lo  !   I  am  she  who  gives  and  takes  away  ; 

Blamed  idly,  day  by  day. 
In  all  mine  acts  by  you,  ye  humankind. 
For  whoso  smites  his  visage  and  doth  mourn, 
What  time  he  renders  back  my  gifts  to  me. 

Learns  then  that  I  decree 
No  state  which  mine  own  arrows  may  not  find. 
Who  clomb  must  fall  :  —  this  bear  ye  well  in  mind, 
Nor  say,  because  he  fell,  I  did  him  wrong.  • 

Yet  mine  is  a  vain  song: 
For  truly  ye  may  find  out  wisdom  when 
King  Arthur's  resting-place  is  found  of  men. 

Ye  make  great  marvel  and  astonishment 
What  time  ye  see  the  sluggard  lifted  up 

And  the  just  man  to  drop. 
And  ye  complain  on  God  and  on  my  sway. 
O  humankind,  ye  sin  in  your  complaint  : 

For  He,  that  Lord  who  made  the  world  to  live. 

Lets  me  not  take  or  give 
By  mine  own  act,  but  as  He  wills  I  may. 
Yet  is  the  mind  of  man  so  castaway. 
That  it  discerns  not  the  supreme  behest. 

Alas  !  ye  wretchedest, 
And  chide  ye  at  God  also  ?     Shall  not  He 
Judge  between  good  and  evil  righteously  ? 

^  This  and  the  three  following  Canzoni  are  only  to  be  found  in  the  later  collections 
of  Guido  Cavalcanti's  poems.  I  have  included  them  on  account  of  their  interest,  if 
really  his,  and  especially  for  the  beauty  of  the  last  among  them  ;  but  must  confess  to 
some  doubts  of  their  authenticity. 


no  Gtiido  Cavalcanti. 

Ah  !  had  ye  knowledge  how  God  evermore, 

With  agonies  of  soul  and  grievous  heats, 
As  on  an  anvil  beats 

On  them  that  in  this  earth  hold  high  estate, — 
Ye  would  choose  little  rather  than  much  store, 

And  solitude  than  spacious  palaces  ; 
Such  is  the  sore  disease 

Of  anguish  that  on  all  their  days  doth  wait. 

Behold  if  they  be  not  unfortunate, 
When  oft  the  father  dares  not  trust  the  son  ! 

0  wealth,  with  thee  is  won 
A  worm  to  gnaw  for  ever  on  his  soul 
Whose  abject  life  is  laid  in  thy  control  ! 

If  also  ye  take  note  what  piteous  death 

They  ofttimes  make,  whose  hoards  were  manifold, 

Who  cities  had  and  gold 
And  multitudes  of  men  beneath  their  hand  ; 
Then  he  among  you  that  most  angereth 

Shall  bless  me,  saying,  "Lo  !  I  worship  thee 

That  I  was  not  as  he 
Whose  death  is  thus  accurst  throughout  the  land." 
But  now  your  living  souls  are  held  in  band 
Of  avarice,  shutting  you  from  the  true  light 

Which  shows  how  sad  and  slight 
Are  this  world's  treasured  riches  and  array 
That  still  change  hands  a  hundred  times  a-day. 

For  me,  —  could  env}'-  enter  in  my  sphere, 

Which  of  all  human  taint  is  clean  and  quit,  — 

1  well  might  harbor  it 

When  I  behold  the  peasant  at  his  toil. 
Guiding  his  team,  untroubled,  free  from  fear, 

He  leaves  his  perfect  furrow  as  he  goes, 
And  gives  his  field  repose 

From  thorns  and  tares  and  weeds  that  vex  the  soil  : 

Thereto  he  labors,  and  without  turmoil 
Intrusts  his  work  to  God,  content  if  so 

Such  guerdon  from  it  grow 
That  in  that  year  his  family  shall  live  : 
Nor  care  nor  thought  to  other  things  will  give. 

But  now  ye  may  no  more  have  speech  of  me. 
For  this  mine  office  craves  continual  use  : 

Ye  therefore  deeply  muse 
Upon  those  things  which  ye  have  heard  the  while  : 

Yea,  and  even  yet  remember  heedfully 


Guido  Cavalcanti.  1 1 


How  this  my  wheel  a  motion  hath  so  fleet, 
That  in  an  eyehd's  beat 
Him  whom  it  raised  it  maketh  low  and  vile. 
None  was,  nor  is,  nor  shall  be  of  such  guile, 
Who  could,  or  can,  or  shall,  I  say,  at  length 

Prevail  against  my  strength.  ^ 
But  still  those  men  that  are  my  questioners 
In  bitter  torment  own  their  hearts  perverse. 

Song,  that  wast  made  to  carry  high  intent 
Dissembled  in  the  garb  of  humbleness,  — 
With  fair  and  open  face 
To  Master  Thomas  let  thy  course  be  bent. 
Say  that  a  great  thing  scarcely  may  be  pent 
In  little  room  :  yet  always  pray  that  he 
Commend  us,  thee  and  me. 
To  them  that  are  more  apt  in  lofty  speech  : 
For  truly  one  must  learn  ere  he  can  teach. 


XXVI. 

Canzone. 

A  Song  against  Poverty. 

0  POVERTY,  by  thee  the  soul  is  wrapp'd 

With  hate,  with  envy,  dolefulness,  and  doubt. 

Even  so  be  thou  cast  out. 
And  everi  so  he  that  speaks  thee  otherwise. 

1  name  thee  now,  because  my  mood  is  apt 
To  curse  thee,  bride  of  every  lost  estate, 

Through  whom  are  desolate 
On  earth  all  honorable  things  and  wise. 
Within  thy  power  each  blest  condition  dies  : 
By  thee,  men's  minds  with  sore  mistrust  are  made 

Fantastic  and  afraid  :  — 
Thou,  hated  worse  than  Death,  by  just  accord, 
And  with  the  loathing  of  all  hearts  abhorr'd. 

Yea,  rightly  art  thou  hated  worse  than  Death, 
For  he  at  length  is  longe,d  for  in  the  breast. 

But  not  with  thee,  wild  beast. 
Was  ever  aught  found  beautiful  or  good. 
For  life  is  all  that  man  can  lose  by  death. 
Not  fame  and  the  fair  summits  of  applause; 
His  glory  shall  not  pause. 
But  live  in  men's  perpetual  gratitude. 
While  he  who  on  thy  naked  sill  has  stood, 


112  Guido  Cavalca72ti. 


Though  of  great  heart  and  worthy  everso, 

He  shall  be  counted  low. 
Then  let  the  man  thou  troublest  never  hope 
To  spread  his  wings  in  any  lofty  scope. 

Hereby  my  mind  is  laden  with  a  fear, 

And  I  will  take  some  thought  to  shelter  me. 

For  this  I  plainly  see  :  — 
Through  thee,  to  fraud  the  honest  man  is  led  ; 
To  tyranny  the  just  lord  turneth  here, 
And  the  magnanimous  soul  to  avarice. 
Of  every  bitter  vice 
Thou,  to  my  thinking,  art  the  fount  and  head  ; 
From  thee  no  light  in  any  wise  is  shed, 
Who  bringest  to  the  paths  of  dusky  hell. 

I  therefore  see  full  well. 
That  death,  the  dungeon,  sickness,  and  old  age, 
Weiofhed  aofainst  thee,  are  blessed  heritage. 


And  what  though  many  a  goodly  hypocrite. 
Lifting  to  thee  his  veritable  prayer. 
Call  God  to  witness  there 
How  this  thy  burden  moved  not  Him  to  wrath. 
Why,  who  may  call  (of  them  that  muse  aright) 
Him  poor,  who  of  the  whole  can  say,  'T  is  Mine  ? 
Methinks  I  well  divine 
That  want,  to  such,  should  seem  an  easy  path. 
God,  who  made  all  things,  all  things  had  and  hath  ; 
Nor  any  tongue  may  say  that  He  was  poor, 

What  while  He  did  endure 
For  man's  best  succor  among  men  to  dwell  : 
Since  to  have  all,  with  Him,  was  possible. 

Song,  thou  shalt  wend  upon  thy  journey  now  : 
And,  if  thou  meet  with  folk  who  rail  at  thee, 

Saying  that  poverty 
Is  not  even  sharper  than  thy  words  allow,  — 
Unto  such  brawlers  briefly  answer  thou, 
To  tell  them  they  are  hypocrites  ;  and  then 

Say  mildly,  once  again, 
That  I,  who  am  nearly  in  a  beggar's  case, 
Might  not  presume  to  sing  my  proper  praise. 


Guido  Cavalcanti. 


XXVII. 

Canzone. 

He  lajuents  the  Presiiviption  and  Incontinence  of  his  Youth, 

The  devastating  flame  of  that  fierce  plague, 
The  foe  of  virtue,  fed  with  others'  peace 

More  than  itself  foresees, 
Being  still  shut  in  to  gnaw  its  own  desire; 
Its  strength  not  weakened,  nor  its  hues  more  vague, 
For  all  the  benison  that  virtue  sheds, 

But  which  for  ever  spreads 
To  be  a  living  curse  that  shall  not  tire  : 
Or  yet  again,  that  other  idle  fire 
Which  flickers  with  all  change  as  winds  may  please  : 

One  whichsoe'er  of  these 
At  length  has  hidden  the  true  path  from  me 

Which  twice  man  may  not  see. 
And  quenched  the  intelligence  of  joy,  till  now 
All  solace  but  abides  in  perfect  woe. 

Alas  !  the  more  my  painful  spirit  grieves, 
The  more  confused  with  miserable  strife 

Is  that  delicious  life 
Which  sighing  it  recalls  perpetually  : 
But  its  worst  anguish,  whence  it  still  receives 
More  pain  than  death,  is  sent,  to  yield  the  sting 

Of  perfect  suffering, 
By  him  who  is  my  lord  and  governs  me  ; 
Who  holds  all  gracious  truth  in  fealty. 
Being  nursed  in  those  four  sisters'  fond  caress 

Through  whom  comes  happiness. 
He  now  has  left  me  ;  and  I  draw  my  breath 

Wound  in  the  arms  of  Death, 
Desirous  of  her  :  she  is  cried  upon 
In  all  the  prayers  my  heart  puts  up  alone. 

How  fierce  aforetime  and  how  absolute 

That  wheel  of  flame  which  turned  within  my  head. 

May  never  quite  be  said. 
Because  there  are  not  words  to  speak  the  whole. 
It  slew  my  hope  whereof  I  lack  the  fruit, 
And  stung  the  blood  within  my  living  flesh 

To  be  an  intricate  mesh 
Of  pain  beyond  endurance  or  control  ; 
Withdrawing  me  from  God.  who  gave  my  soul 
8 


1 14  Guido  Cavalcanti. 


To  know  the  sign  where  honor  has  its  seat 

From  honor's  counterfeit. 
So  in  its  longing  my  heart  finds  not  hope, 

Nor  knows  what  door  to  ope  ; 
Since,  parting  me  from  God,  this  foe  took  thought 
To  shut  those  paths  wherein  He  may  be  sought. 

My  second  enemy,  thrice  armed  in  guile. 
As  wise  and  cunning  to  mine  overthrow 

As  her  smooth  face  doth  show, 
With  yet  more  shameless  strength  holds  mastery. 
My  spirit,  naked  of  its  light  and  vile. 
Is  lit  by  her  with  her  own  deadly  gleam. 

Which  makes  all  anguish  seem 
As  nothing  to  her  scourges  that  I  see. 
O  thou  the  body  of  grace,  abide  with  me 
As  thou  wast  once  in  the  once  joyful  time  ; 

And  though  thou  hate  my  crime. 
Fill  not  my  life  with  torture  to  the  end  ; 

But  in  thy  mercy,  bend 
My  steps,  and  for  thine  honor,  back  again; 
Till,  finding  joy  through  thee,  I  bless  my  pain. 

Since  that  first  frantic  devil  without  faith 

Fell,  in  thy  name,  upon  the  stairs  that  mount 

Unto  the  limpid  fount 
Of  thine  intelligence,  —  withhold  not  now 
Thy  grace,  nor  spare  my  second  foe  from  death. 
For  lo  !  on  this  my  soul  has  set  her  trust  ; 

And  failing  this,  thou  must 
Prove  false  to  truth  and  honor,  seest  thou  ! 
Then,  saving  light  and  throne  of  strength,  allow 
My  prayer,  and  vanquish  both  my  foes  at  last  ; 

That  so  I  be  not  cast 
Into  that  woe  wherein  I  fear  to  end. 

Yet  if  it  is  ordain'd 
That  I  must  die  ere  this  be  perfected,  — 
Ah  !  yield  me  comfort  after  I  am  dead. 

Ye  unadorned  words  obscure  of  sense. 

With  weeping  and  with  sighing  go  from  me, 

And  bear  mine  agony 
(Not  to  be  told  by  words,  being  too  intense) 
To  His  intelligence 
Who  moved  by  virtue  shall  fulfil  my  breath 
In  human  life  or  compensating  death. 


Guido  Cavalcanti,  115 


XXVIII. 

Canzone. 

A  Dispute  with  Death. 

"  O  SLUGGISH,  hard,  ingrate,  what  doest  thou  ? 
Poor  sinner,  folded  round  with  heavy  sin, 

Whose  life  to  find  out  joy  alone  is  bent. 
I  call  thee,  and  thou  falFst  to  deafness  now  ; 
And,  deeming  that  my  path  whereby  to  win 

Thy  seat  is  lost,  there  sitt'st  thee  down  content, 

And  hold'st  me  to  thy  will  subservient. 
But  I  into  thy  heart  have  crept  disguised  : 

Among  thy  senses  and  thy  sins  I  went. 
By  roads  thou  didst  not  guess,  unrecognized. 
Tears  will  not  now  sufiice  to  bid  me  go. 
Nor  countenance  abased,  nor  words  of  woe." 


Now,  when  I  heard  the  sudden  dreadful  voice 
Wake  thus  within  to  cruel  utterance. 

Whereby  the  very  heart  of  hearts  did  fail, 
My  spirit  might  not  any  more  rejoice, 

But  fell  from  its  courageous  pride  at  once, 

And  turned  to  fly,  where  flight  may  not  avail. 

Then  slowly  'gan  some  strength  to  re-inhale 
The  trembling  life  which  heard  that  whisper  speak, 

And  had  conceived  the  sense  with  sore  travail  ; 
Till  in  the  mouth  it  murmured,  very  weak, 
Saying  :  "  Youth,  wealth,  and  beauty,  these  have  I  : 
O  Death  !  remit  thy  claim,  —  I  would  not  die." 


Small  sign  of  pity  in  that  aspect  dwells  , 
Which  then  had  scattered  all  my  life  abroad 

Till  there  was  comfort  with  no  single  sense  : 
And  yet  almost  in  piteous  syllables. 

When  I  had  ceased  to  speak,  this  answer  flow'd  : 

"  Behold  what  path  is  spread  before  thee  hence  ; 

Thy  life  has  all  but  a  day's  permanence. 
And  is  it  for  the  sake  of  youth  there  seems 

In  loss  of  human  years  such  sore  offence  .'* 
Nay,  look  unto  the  end  of  youthful  dreams. 
What  present  glory  does  thy  hope  possess, 
That  shall  not  yield  ashes  and  bitterness  ?  " 


1 1 6  Guido  Cavalcanti. 


But,  when  I  looked  on  Death  made  visible, 

From  my  heart's  sojourn  brought  before  mine  eyes, 

And  holding  in  her  hand  my  grievous  sin, 
I  seemed  to  see  my  countenance,  that  fell. 
Shake  like  a  shadow  :  my  heart  uttered  cries, 

And  my  soul  wept  the  curse  that  lay  therein. 

Then  Death  :  "Thus  much  thine  urgent  prayer  shall  win 
I  grant  thee  the  brief  interval  of  youth 

At  natural  pity's  strong  soliciting." 
And  I  (because  I  knew  that  moment's  ruth 
But  left  my  life  to  groan  for  a  frail  space) 
Fell  in  the  dust  upon  my  weeping  face. 


So,  when  she  saw  me  thus  abashed  and  dumb, 
In  loftier  words  she  weighed  her  argument. 

That  new  and  strange  it  was  to  hear  her  speak 
Saying  :  •'  The  path  thy  fears  withhold  thee  from 
Is  thy  best  path.     To  folly  be  not  shent, 

Nor  shrink  from  me  because  thy  flesh  is  weak. 

Thou  seest  how  man  is  sore  confused,  and  eke 
How  ruinous  Chance  makes  havoc  of  his  life, 

And  grief  is  in  the  joys  that  he  doth  seek  ; 
Nor  ever  pauses  the  perpetual  strife 
'Twixt  fear  and  rage  ;  until  beneath  the  sun 
His  perfect  anguish  be  fulfilled  and  done." 


"  O  Death  !  thou  art  so  dark  and  difficult, 
That  never  human  creature  might  attain 

By  his  own  will  to  pierce  thy  secret  sense  ; 
Because,  foreshadowing  thy  dread  result, 
He  may  not  put  his  trust  in  heart  or  brain. 

Nor  power  avails  him,  nor  intelligence. 

Behold  how  cruelly  thou  takest  hence 
These  forms  so  beautiful  and  dignified. 

And  chain'st  them  in  thy  shadow  chill  and  dense, 
And  forcest  them  in  narrow  graves  to  hide  ; 
With  pitiless  hate  subduing  still  to  thee 
The  strength  of  man  and  woman's  dehcacy." 

"  Not  for  thy  fear  the  less  I  come  at  last, 
For  this  thy  tremor,  for  thy  painful  sweat. 

Take  therefore  thought  to  leave  (for  lo  !  I  call) 
Kinsfolk  and  comrades,  all  thou  didst  hold  fast,  — 
Thy  father  and  thy  mother,  — to  forget 

All  these  thy  brethren,  sisters,  children,  all. 
Cast  sight  and  hearing  from  thee  ;  let  hope  fall  ; 


Guido  Cavalcanti.,  WJ 


Leave  every  sense  and  thy  whole  intellect, 

These  things  wherein  thy  life  made  festival  : 
For  I  have  wrought  thee  to  such  strange  effect 
That  thou  hast  no  more  power  to  dwell  with  these 
As  living  man.     Let  pass  thy  soul  in  peace." 

Yea,  Lord.     O  thou,  the  Builder  of  the  spheres, 
Who,  making  me,  didst  shape  me,  of  thy  grace, 

In  thine  own  image  and  high  counterpart; 
Do  thou  subdue  my  spirit,  long  perverse. 
To  weep  within  thy  will  a  certain  space, 

Ere  yet  thy  thunder  come  to  rive  my  heart. 

Set  in  my  hand  some  sign  of  what  thou  art. 
Lord  God,  and  suffer  me  to  seek  out  Christ, — 

.Weeping,  to  seek  Him  in  thy  ways  apart  ; 
Until  my  sorrow  have  at  length  suffic'd 
In  some  accepted  instant  to  atone 
For  sins  of  thought,  for  stubborn  evil  done. 

Dishevelled  and  in  tears,  go,  song  of  mine. 
To  break  the  hardness  of  the  heart  of  man  : 
Say  how  his  life  began 
From  dust,  and  in  that  dust  doth  sink  supine  : 

Yet,  say,  the  unerring  spirit  of  grief  shall  guide     1 
His  soul,  being  purified, 
To  seek  its  Maker  at  the  heavenly  shrine. 


GINO    DA    PISTOIA. 


TO    DANTE    ALIGHIERI. 

SOXXET. 

He  interprets  Dante's  Dream  related  in  the  first  Sonnet  of  the 
Vita  Nuova^ 

Each  lover's  longing  leads  him  naturally 

Unto  his  lady's  heart  his  heart  to  show  ; 

And  this  it  is  that  Love  would  have  thee  know 
By  the  strange  vision  which  he  sent  to  thee/ 
With  thy  heart  therefore,  flaming  outwardly, 

In  humble  guise  he  fed  thy  lady  so, 

Who  long  had  lain  in  slumber,  from  all  woe 
Folded  within  a  mantle  silently. 
Also,  in  coming,  Love  might  not  repress 

His  joy,  to  yield  thee  thy  desire  achieved. 
Whence  heart  should  unto  heart  true  service  bring. 
But  understanding  the  great  love-sickness 

Which  in  thy  lady's  bosom  was  conceived, 
He  pitied  her,  and  wept  in  vanishing. 

*  See  aitte,  page  28. 


Cino  da  Pistoia.  119 


II. 

TO    DANTE    ALIGHIERI. 

Canzone. 

On  the  DeatJi  of  Beatrice  Portinari. 

Albeit  my  prayers  have  not  so  long  delay'd, 

But  craved  for  thee,  ere  this,  that  Pity  and  Love 
Which  only  bring  our  heavy  life  some  rest  ; 
Yet  is  not  now  the  time  so  much  o'erstay'd 

But  that  these  words  of  mine  which  tow'rds  thee  move 
Must  find  thee  still  with  spirit  dispossess'd, 
And  say  to  thee  :  "  In  Heaven  she  now  is  bless'd, 
Even  as  the  blessed  name  men  called  her  by;  " 

While  thou  dost  ever  cry, 
"  Alas  !  the  blessing  of  mine  eyes  is  flown  !  " 

Behold,  these  words  set  down 
Are  needed  still,  for  still  thou  sorrowest. 
Then  hearken  ;  I  would  yield  advisedly 
Some  comfort  :  Stay  these  sighs  ;  give  ear  to  me. 

We  know  for  certain  that  in  this  blind  world 
Each  man's  subsistence  is  of  grief  and  pain. 
Still  trailed  by  fortune  through  all  bitterness. 
Blessed  the  soul  which,  when  its  flesh  is  furl'd 
Within  a  shroud,  rejoicing  doth  attain 

To  Heaven  itself,  made  free  of  earthly  stress. 
Then  wherefore  sighs  thy  heart  in  abjectness, 
Which  for  her  triumph  should  exult  aloud  ì 

For  He  the  Lord  our  God 
Hath  called  her,  hearkening  what  her  Angel  said. 
To  have  Heaven  perfected. 
Each  saint  for  a  new  thing  beholds  her  face, 
And  she  the  face  of  our  Redemption  sees, 
Conversing  with  immortal  substances. 

Why  now  do  pangs  of  torment  clutch  thy  heart 
Which  with  thy  love  should  make  thee  overjoy'd, 
As  him  whose  intellect  hath  passed  the  skies  ì 
Behold,  the  spirits  of  thy  life  depart 

Daily  to  Heaven  with  her,  they  so  are  buoy'd 
With  their  desire,  and  Love  so  bids  them  rise. 
O  Godi  and  thou,  a  man  whom  God  made  wise. 


120  Cino  da  Pistoia. 


To  nurse  a  charge  of  care,  and  love  the  same  ! 

I  bid  thee  in  His  Name 
From  sin  of  sighing  grief  to  hold  thy  breath, 
Nor  let  thy  heart  to  death, 
Nor  harbor  death's  resemblance  in  thine  eyes. 
God  hath  her  with  Himself  eternally, 
Yet  she  inhabits  every  hour  with  thee. 

Be  comforted,  Love  cries,  be  comforted  ! 

Devotion  pleads.  Peace,  for  the  love  of  God  ! 
O  yield  thyself  to  prayers  so  full  of  grace  ; 
And  make  thee  naked  now  of  this  dull  weed 
Which  'neath  thy  foot  were  better  to  be  trod  ; 

For  man  through  grief  despairs  and  ends  his  days. 
How  ever  shouldst  thou  see  the  lovely  face 
If  any  desperate  death  should  once  be  thine? 

From  justice  so  condign 
Withdraw  thyself  even  now;  that  in  the  end 
Thy  heart  may  not  offend 
Against  thy  soul,  which  in  the  holy  place, 
In  Heaven,  still  hopes  to  see  her  and  to  be 
Within  her  arms.     Let  this  hope  comfort  thee. 

Look  thou  into  the  pleasure  wherein  dwells 
Thy  lovely  lady  who  is  in  Heaven  crown'd, 
Who  is  herself  thy  hope  in  Heaven,  the  while 
To  make  thy  memory  hallowed  she  avails  ; 
Being  a  soul  within  the  deep  Heaven  bound, 
A  face  on  thy  heart  painted,  to  beguile 
Thy  heart  of  grief  which  else  should  turn  it  vile. 
Even  as  she  seemed  a  wonder  here  below, 

On  high  she  seemeth  so,  — 
Yea,  better  known,  is  there  more  wondrous  yet. 
And  even  as  she  was  met 
First  by  the  angels  with  sweet  song  and  smile, 
Thy  spirit  bears  her  back  upon  the  wing. 
Which  often  in  those  ways  is  journeying. 

Of  thee  she  entertains  the  blessed  throngs, 

And  says  to  them  :  "  While  yet  my  body  thrave 
On  earth,  I  gat  much  honor  which  he  gave, 

Commending  me  in  his  commended  songs." 
Also  she  asks  alway  of  God  our  Lord 
To  give  thee  peace  according  to  His  word. 


Cirio  da  Pistoia.  I2I 


III. 

TO    DANTE    ALIGHIERI. 

Sonnet. 

He  conceives  of  soine  Coinpensatio?i  in  Death.^ 

Dante,  whenever  this  thing  happeneth, — 
That  Love's  desire  is  quite  bereft  of  Hope, 
(Seeking  in  vain  at  ladies'  eyes  some  scope 
Of  joy,  through  what  the  heart  for  ever  saith),  — 
I  ask  thee,  can  amends  be  made  by  Death  ì 
■  Is  such  sad  pass  the  last  extremity? —  ^ 

Or  may  the  Soul  that  never  feared  to  die 
Then  in  another  body  draw  new  breath .''  ■; 

Lo  !  thus  it  is  through  her  who  governs  all  ' 

Below,  —  that  I,  who  entered  at  her  door, 
Now  at  her  dreadful  window  must  fare  forth. 
Yea,  and  I  think  through  her  it  doth  befall 
That  even  ere  yet  the  road  is  travelled  o'er 
My  bones  are  weary  and  life  is  nothing  worth. 

IV. 

Madrigal. 

To  his  Lady  Selvaggia  Vergiolesi ;  likening  his  Love  to  a 
Search  for  Gold. 

I  AM  all  bent  to  glean  the  golden  ore 
Little  by  little  from  the  river-bed  ; 
Hoping  the  day  to  see 
When  Crcesus  shall  be  conquered  in  my  store. 

Therefore,  still  sifting  where  the  sands  are  spread, 
I  labor  patiently  : 
Till,  thus  intent  on  this  thing  and  no  more,  — 
If  to  a  vein  of  silver  I  were  led. 

It  scarce  could  gladden  me. 
And,  seeing  that  no  joy 's  so  warm  i'  the  core 
As  this  whereby  the  heart  is  comforted 
And  the  desire  set  free, — 
Therefore  thy  bitter  love  is  still  my  scope. 

Lady,  from  whom  it  is  my  life's  sore  theme 
More  painfully  to  sift  the  grains  of  hope 
Than  gold  out  of  that  stream. 

1  Among  Dante's  Epistles  there  is  a  Latin  letter  to  Cino,  which  I  should  judge 
i-as  written  in  reply  to  this  Sonnet. 


122  Cino  da  Pistoia. 


V. 

SOXXET. 

To  Love.,  in  great  Bitterness. 

0  Love,  O  thou  that,  for  my  fealty. 
Only  in  torment  dost  thy  power  employ, 
Give  me,  for  God's  sake,  something  of  thy  joy, 

That  I  may  learn  what  good  there  is  in  thee. 
Yea,  for,  if  thou  art  glad  with  grieving  me, 

Surely  my  very  life  thou  shalt  destroy 

When  thou  renew'st  my  pain,  because  the  joy 
Must  then  be  wept  for  with  the  misery. 
He  that  had  never  sense  of  good,  nor  sight, 

Esteems  his  ill  estate  but  natural. 

Which  so  is  lighther  borne  :  his  case  is  mine. 
But,  if  thou  wouldst  uplift  me  for  a  sign, 

Bidding  me  drain  the  curse  and  know  it  all, 

1  must  a  little  taste  its  opposite. 


VI. 

SOXXET. 

Death  is  not  witJwut  but  within  him. 

This  fairest  lady,  who,  as  well  I  wot. 

Found  entrance  by  her  beauty  to  my  soul. 

Pierced  through  mine  eyes  my  heart,  which  erst  was  whole. 
Sorely,  yet  makes  as  though  she  knew  it  not  ; 
Nay  turns  upon  me  now.  to  anger  wrought. 

Dealing  me  harshness  for  my  pain's  best  dole, 

And  is  so  changed  by  her  own  wrath's  control, 
That  I  go  thence,  in  my  distracted  thought 
Content  to  die  ;  and,  mourning,  cry  abroad 

On  Death,  as  upon  one  afar  from  me  ; 

But  Death  makes  answer  from  within  my  heart. 

Then,  hearing  her  so  hard  at  hand  to  be, 
I  do  commend  my  spirit  unto  God  ; 

Saying  to  her  too,  "  Ease  and  peace  thou  art." 


Cino  da  Pistoia.  123 


VII. 

Sonnet. 

A  Trance  of  Love. 

Vanquished  and  weary  was  my  soul  in  me, 
And  my  heart  gasped  after  its  much  lament, 
When  sleep  at  length  the  painful  languor  sent. 
And,  as  I  slept  (and  wept  incessantly),  — 
Through  the  keen  fixedness  of  memory 

Which  I  had  cherished  ere  my  tears  were  spent, 
I  passed  to  a  new  trance  of  wonderment  ; 
Wherein  a  visible  spirit  I  could  see, 
Which  caught  me  up,  and  bore  me  to  a  place 
Where  my  most  gentle  lady  was  alone  ; 

And  still  before  us  a  fire  seemed  to  move, 
Out  of  the  which  methought  there  came  a  moan, 
Uttering,  "  Grace,  a  little  season,  grace  ! 

I  am  of  one  that  hath  the  wings  of  Love." 


VIII. 

Sonnet. 

Of  the  Grave  of  Selvaggia^  on  the  Mojite  della  Satnbuca. 

I  WAS  upon  the  high  and  blessed  mound. 

And  kissed,  long  worshipping,  the  stones  and  grass. 
There  on  the  hard  stones  prostrate,  where,  alas  ! 

That  pure  one  laid  her  forehead  in  the  ground. 

Then  were  the  springs  of  gladness  sealed  and  bound. 
The  day  that  unto  Death's  most  bitter  pass 
My  sick  heart's  lady  turned  her  feet,  who  was 

Already  in  her  gracious  life  renown'd. 

So  in  that  place  I  spake  to  Love,  and  cried  : 

"  O  sweet  my  god,  I  am  one  whom  Death  may  claim 
Hence  to  be  his  ;  for  lo  !  my  heart  lies  here." 
Anon,  because  my  Master  lent  no  ear, 
Departing,  still  I  called  Selvaggia's  name. 

So  with  my  moan  I  left  the  mountain-side. 


124  Ciiio  da  Pistoia. 


IX. 

Canzone. 

His  laineìitfor  Selvaggia. 

Ay  me,  alas  !  the  beautiful  bright  hair 
That  shed  reflected  gold 

O'er  the  green  growths  on  either  side  the  way  : 
Ay  me  !  the  lovely  look,  open  and  fair, 
Which  my  heart's  core  doth  hold 

With  ail  else  of  that  best-remembered  day  ; 
Ay  me  !  the  face  made  gay 
With  joy  that  Love  confers  ; 
Ay  me  !  that  smile  of  hers 

Where  whiteness  as  of  snow  w^as  visible 
Among  the  roses  at  all  seasons  red  ! 

Ay  me  !  and  was  this  well, 
O  Death,  to  let  me  live  when  she  is  dead  ? 

Ay  me  !  the  calm,  erect,  dignified  walk  ; 
Ay  me!  the  sweet  salute, — 

The  thoughtful  mind,  — the  wit  discreetly  worn  ; 
Ay  me  !  the  clearness  of  her  noble  talk, 
Which  made  the  good  take  root 

In  me,  and  for  the  evil  woke  my  scorn  ; 
Ay  me  !  the  longing  born 
Of  so  much  lovehness, — 
The  hope,  whose  eager  stress 

Made  other  hopes  fall  back  to  let  it  pass. 
Even  till  my  load  of  love  grew  light  thereby  ! 

These  thou  hast  broken,  as  glass, 
O  Death,  who  makest  me,  alive,  to  die  ! 

Ay  me  !  Lady,  the  lady  of  all  worth  ;  — 
Saint,  for  whose  single  shrine 

All  other  shrines  I  left,  even  as  Love  will'd;  — 
Ay  me  !  what  precious  stone  in  the  whole  earth. 
For  that  pure  fame  of  thine 

Worthy  the  marble  statue's  base  to  yield  ? 
Ay  me  !  fair  vase  fulfill'd 
With  more  than  this  world's  good,  — 
By  cruel  chance  and  rude 

Cast  out  upon  the  steep  path  of  the  mountains 
Where  Death  has  shut  thee  in  between  hard  stones  ! 

Ay  me  !  two  languid  fountains 
Of  weeping  are  these  eyes,  which  joy  disowns. 


Cino  da  Pistoia.  125 


Ay  me,  sharp  Death  !  till  what  I  ask  is  done 

And  my  whole  life  is  ended  utterly,  — 
Answer  —  must  I  weep  on 

Even  thus,  and  never  cease  to  moan  Ay  me  ? 

X. 

TO    GUIDO    CAVALCANTI. 

Sonnet. 
He  owes  nothing  to  Guido  as  a  Poet. 

What  rhymes  are  thine  which  I  have  ta'en  from  thee, 

Thou  Guido,  that  thou  ever  say'st  I  thieve  ì  ^ 

'T  is  true,  fine  fancies  gladly  I  receive. 
But  when  was  aught  found  beautiful  in  thee  ì 
Nay,  I  have  searched  my  pages  diligently. 

And  tell  the  truth,  and  lie  not,  by  your  leave. 

From  whose  rich  store  my  web  of  songs  I  weave 
Love  knoweth  well,  well  knowing  them  and  me. 
No  artist  I,  —  all  men  may  gather  it; 

Nor  do  I  work  in  ignorance  of  pride 
(Though  the  world  reach  alone  the  coarser  sense), 
But  am  a  certain  man  of  humble  wit 

Who  journeys  with  his  sorrow  at  his  side, 
For  a  heart's  sake,  alas  !  that  is  gone  hence. 

XL 

Sonnet. 
He  impugns  the  verdicts  of  Dante's  Cotmnedia. 

This  book  of  Dante's,  very  sooth  to  say. 

Is  just  a  poet's  lovely  heresy. 

Which  by  a  lure  as  sweet  as  sweet  can  be 
Draws  other  men's  concerns  beneath  its  sway  ; 
While,  among  stars'  and  comets'  dazzHng  play. 

It  beats  the  right  down,  lets  the  wrong  go  free, 

Shows  some  abased,  and  others  in  great  glee, 
Much  as  with  lovers  is  Love's  ancient  way. 
Therefore  his  vain  decrees,  wherein  he  lied, 

Fixing  folks'  nearness  to  the  Fiend  their  foe, 
Must  be  like  empty  nutshells  flung  aside. 

Yet  through  the  rash  false  witness  set  to  grow, 
French  and  Italian  vengeance  on  such  pride 

May  fall,  like  Antony's  on  Cicero. 

1  I  have  not  examined  Cino's  poetry  with  special  reference  to  this  accusation  ;  but 
there  is  a  Canzone  of  his  in  which  he  speaks  of  having  conceived  an  affection  for 
another  ladv  from  her  resemblance  to  Selvaggia.  Perhaps  Guido  considered  this  as  a 
sort  of  plagiarism  de  facto  on  his  own  change  of  love  tlirough  Mandetta's  likeness  to 
Giovanna. 


126  Cino  da  Pistoia. 


XII. 

Sonnet. 

He  condemns  Datti  e  for  not  naming,  in  the  Commedia,his 
friend  Onesto  di  Boticima,  and  his  Lady  Selvaggia. 

Among  the  faults  we  in  that  book  descry 

Which  has  crowned  Dante  lord  of  rhyme  and  thought, 
Are  two  so  grave  that  some  attaint  is  brought 

Unto  the  greatness  of  his  soul  thereby. 

One  is,  that,  holding  with  Sordello  high 

Discourse,  and  with  the  rest  who  sang  and  taught, 
He  of  Onesto  di  Boncima  ^  nought 

Has  said,  who  was  to  Arnauld  Daniel  ^  nigh. 

The  other  is,  that  when  he  says  he  came 
To  see,  at  summit  of  the  sacred  stair. 

His  Beatrice  among  the  heavenly  signs,  — 

He,  looking  in  the  bosom  of  Abraham, 
Saw  not  that  highest  of  all  women  there 
Who  joined  Mount  Sion  to  the  Apennines.^ 

1  Between  this  poet  and  Cino  various  friendly  sonnets  were  interchanged,  which 
may  be  found  in  the  Italian  collections.  There  is  also  one  sonnet  by  Onesto  to  Cino, 
with  his  answer,  both  of  which  are  far  from  being  affectionate  or  respectful.  They 
are  very  obscure,  however,  and  not  specially  interesting. 

2  The  Provencal  poet,  mentioned  in  C.  xxvi.  of  the  Purgatory. 

3  That  is,  sanctified  the  Apennines  by  her  burial  on  the  Monte  della  Sambuca. 


DANTE   DA    MAIANO. 


TO   DANTE   ALIGHIERI. 

Sonnet. 

He  interprets  Dante  AlighierVs  Dream,  related  in  the  first 
Sonnet  òf  the  Vita  Nuova. '^ 

Of  that  wherein  thou  art  a  questioner 
Considering,  I  make  answer  briefly  thus, 
Good  friend,  in  wit  but  little  prosperous  : 

And  from  my  words  the  truth  thou  shalt  infer,  — 

So  hearken  to  thy  dream's  interpreter. 

If,  sound  of  frame,  thou  soundly  canst  discuss 
In  reason,  —  then,  to  expel  this  overplus 

Of  vapors  which  hath  made  thy  speech  to  err, 

See  that  thou  lave  and  purge  thy  stomach  soon. 
But  if  thou  art  afflicted  with  disease. 
Know  that  I  count  it  mere  delirium. 
Thus  of  my  thought  I  write  thee  back  the  sum  : 
Nor  my  conclusions  can  be  changed  from  these 

Till  to  the  leech  thy  water  I  have  shown. 

^  See  aiite,  page  28. 


Guido  Orlandi, 


II. 

SOXNET. 

He  craves  interpreting  of  a  Dreani  of  his. 

Thou  that  art  wise,  let  wisdom  minister 

Unto  my  dream,  that  it  be  understood. 
To  wit  :  A  lady,  of  her  body  fair, 

And  whom  my  heart  approves  in  womanhood, 

Bestowed  on  me  a  wreath  of  flowers,  fair-hued 
And  green  in  leaf,  with  gentle  loving  air  ; 

After  the  which,  meseemed  I  was  stark  nude 
Save  for  a  smock  of  hers  that  I  did  wear. 
Whereat,  good  friend,  my  courage  gat  such  growth 

That  to  mine  arms  I  took  her  tenderly  : 
With  no  rebuke  the  beauty  laughed  unloath, 

And  as  she  laughed  I  kissed  continually. 
I  say  no  more,  for  that  I  pledged  mine  oath, 

And  that  my  mother,  who  is  dead,  was  by. 

GUIDO    ORLANDI    TO    DANTE    DA   MAIANO. 

Sonnet. 

He  interprets  the  Dream  ^  related  in  the  foregoing  Sonnet. 

On  the  last  words  of  what  you  write  to  me 

I  give  you  my  opinion  at  the  first. 

To  see  the  dead  must  prove  corruption  nursed 
Within  you,  by  your  heart's  own  vanity. 
The  soul  should  bend  the  flesh  to  its  decree  : 

Then  rule  it,  friend,  as  fish  by  line  amerced. 

As  to  the  smock,  your  lady's  gift,  the  worst 
Of  words  were  not  too  bad  for  speech  so  free. 
It  is  a  thing  unseemly  to  declare 

The  love  of  gracious  dame  or  damozel, 

And  therewith  for  excuse  to  say,  I  dream'd. 
Tell  us  no  more  of  this,  but  think  who  seem'd 

To  call  you  :  mother  came  to  whip  you  well. 
Love  close,  and  of  Love's  joy  you  '11  have  your  share. 

1  There  exist  no  fewer  than  six  answers  by  different  poets,  interpreting  Dante  da 
Maiano's  dream.  I  have  chosen  Guido  Orlandi's,  much  the  most  matter-of-fact  of 
the  six,  because  it  is  diverting  to  find  the  writer  again  in  his  antagonistic  mood.  Among 
the  five  remaining  answers,  in  all  of  which  the  vision  is  treated  as  a  very  mysterious 
matter,  one  is  attributed  to  Dante  Alighieri,  but  seems  so  doubtful  that  I  have  not 
translated  it.  Indeed,  it  would  do  the  greater  Dante,  if  he  really  wrote  it,  little  credit 
as  a  lucid  interpreter  of  dreams  ;  though  it  might  have  some  interest,  as  giving  him 
(when  compared  with  the  sonnet  at  page  127)  a  decided  advantage  over  his  lesser 
namesake  in  point  of   courtesy. 


Dante  da  Maiano.  1 29 


III. 

Sonnet. 

To  his  Lady  AHna^  of  Sicily. 

So  greatly  thy  great  pleasance  pleasured  me, 
Gentle  my  lady,  from  the  first  of  all, 
That  counting  every  other  blessing  small 

I  gave  myself  up  wholly  to  know  thee  : 

And  since  I  was  made  thine,  thy  courtesy 
And  worth,  more  than  of  earth,  celestial, 
I  learned,  and  from  its  freedom  did  enthrall 

My  heart,  the  servant  of  thy  grace  to  be. 

Wherefore  I  pray  thee,  joyful  countenance, 
Humbly,  that  it  incense  or  irk  thee  not, 

If  I,  being  thine,  do  wait  upon  thy  glance. 

More  to  solicit,  I  am  all  afraid  : 

Yet,  lady,  twofold  is  the  gift,  we  wot, 

Given  to  the  needy  unsolicited. 

IV. 

Sonnet. 

He  thanks  his  Lady  for  the  foy  he  has  had  from  her. 

Wonderful  countenance  and  royal  neck, 

I  have  not  found  your  beauty's  parallel  ! 

Nor  at  her  birth  might  any  yet  prevail 
The  likeness  of  these  features  to  partake. 
Wisdom  is  theirs,  and  mildness  :  for  whose  sake 

All  grace  seems  stol'n,  such  perfect  grace  to  swell  ; 

Fashioned  of  God  beyond  delight  to  dwell 
Exalted.     And  herein  my  pride  I  take 
Who  of  this  garden  have  possession. 

So  that  all  worth  subsists  for  my  behoof 
And  bears  itself  according  to  my  will. 
Lady,  in  thee  such  pleasance  hath  its  fill 
That  whoso  is  content  to  rest  thereon 

Knows  not  of  grief,  and  holds  all  pain  aloof. 


9 


CECCO   ANGIOLIERI,   DA   SIENA. 


TO   DANTE   ALIGHIERI. 

Sonnet. 

On  the  last  Soìinet  of  the  Vita  Nuova} 

Dante  Alighieri.  Cecco,  your  good  friend 
And  servant,  gives  you  greeting  as  his  lord, 
And  prays  you  for  the  sake  of  Love's  accord 

(Love  being  the  Master  before  whom  you  bend), 

That  you  will  pardon  him  if  he  offend. 

Even  as  your  gentle  heart  can  well  afford. 
All  that  he  w^ants  to  say  is  just  one  word 

Which  partly  chides  your  sonnet  at  the  end. 

For  where  the  measure  changes,  first  you  say 
You  do  not  understand  the  gentle  speech 
A  spirit  made  touching  your  Beatrice  : 

And  next  you  tell  your  ladies  how,  straightway, 
You  understand  it.     Wherefore  (look  you)  each 
Of  theseryour  words  the  other's  sense  denies. 

1  See  ante,  page  77, 


Cecco  Angio Iteri.  1 3 1 


II. 
Sonnet.  ^  1 

Ne  will  not  be  too  deeply  in  Love. 

I  AM  enamoured,  and  yet  not  so  much 

But  that  I  'd  do  without  it  easily  ; 

And  my  own  mind  thinks  all  the  more  of  me 
That  Love  has  not  quite  penned  me  in  his  hutch. 
Enough  if  for  his  sake  I  dance  and  touch 

The  lute,  and  serve  his  servants  cheerfully: 

An  overdose  is  worse  than  none  would  be  : 
Love  is  no  lord  of  mine,  I  'm  proud  to  vouch. 
So  let  no  woman  who  is  born  conceive 

That  I  '11  be  her  liege  slave,  as  I  see  some, 
Be  she  as  fair  and  dainty  as  she  will. 
Too  much  of  love  makes  idiots,  I  believe  : 

I  like  not  any  fashion  that  turns  glum 
The  heart,  and  makes  the  visage  sick  and  ill. 


III.  ^  y. 

Sonnet. 
Of  Love  in  Men  and  Devils. 

The  man  who  feels  not,  more  or  less,  somewhat 

Of  love  in  all  the  years  his  life  goes  round 

Should  be  denied  a  grave  in  holy  ground 
Except  with  usurers  who  will  bate  no  groat  : 
Nor  he  himself  should  count  himself  a  jot 

Less  wretched  than  the  meanest  beggar  found. 

Also  the  man  who  in  Love's  robe  is  gown'd 
May  say  that  Fortune  smiles  upon  his  lot. 
Seeing  how  love  has  such  nobility 

That  if  it  entered  in  the  lord  of  Hell 

'T  would  rule  him  more  than  his  fire's  ancient  sting  ; 
He  should  be  glorified  to  eternity. 

And  all  his  life  be  always  glad  and  well 
As  is  a  wanton  woman  in  the  spring. 


132  Cecco  Angio Iteri. 


IV. 

Sonnet. 
Of  Love,  in  honor  of  his  7Jtistress  Becchina. 

Whatever  good  is  naturally  done 

Is  born  of  Love  as  fruit  is  born  of  flower: 
By  Love  all  good  is  brought  to  its  full  power  : 

Yea,  Love  does  more  than  this  ;  for  he  finds  none 

So  coarse  but  from  his  touch  some  grace  is  won, 
And  the  poor  wretch  is  altered  in  an  hour. 
So  let  it  be  decreed  that  Death  devour 

The  beast  who  says  that  Love  's  a  thing  to  shun. 

A  man  's  just  worth  the  good  that  he  can  hold, 
And  where  no  love  is  found,  no  good  is  there; 
On  that  there  's  nothing  that  I  would  not  stake. 

So  now,  my  Sonnet,  go  as  you  are  told 

To  lovers  and  their  sweethearts  everywhere, 
And  say  I  made  you  for  Beech ina's  sake. 


Sonnet. 
Of  Becchina,  the  Shoemaker'' s  Daughter. 

Why,  if  Becchina's  heart  were  diamond, 
And  all  the  other  parts  of  her  were  steel, 
As  cold  to  love  as  snows  when  they  congeal 

In  lands  to  which  the  sun  may  not  get  round; 

And  if  her  father  were  a  giant  crown'd 
And  not  a  donkey  born  to  stitching  shoes, 
Or  I  were  but  an  ass  myself;  —  to  use 

Such  harshness,  scarce  could  to  her  praise  redound. 

Yet  if  she  'd  only  for  a  minute  hear, 
And  I  could  speak  if  only  pretty  well, 

I  'd  let  her  know  that  I  'm  her  happiness.; 

That  I  'm  her  life  should  also  be  made  clear, 
With  other  things  that  I  've  no  need  to  tell  ; 
And  then  I  feel  quite  sure  she  'd  answer  Yes. 


Cecco  Angiolieri.  I33 


VI. 

Sonnet. 
To  M esser  Angiolieri,  his  Father. 

If  l 'd  a  sack  of  florins,  and  all  new 

(Packed  tight  together,  freshly  coined  and  fine), 

And  Arcidosso  and  Montegiovi  mine,i 
And  quite  a  glut  of  eagle-pieces  too,  — 
It  were  but  as  three  farthings  to  my  view 

Without  Becchina.     Why  then  all  these  plots 

To  whip  me,  daddy?    Nay,  but  tell  me  —what 's 
My  sin,  or  all  the  sins  of  Turks,  to  you  ? 
For  I  protest  (or  may  I  be  struck  dead  !) 

My  love  's  so  firmly  planted  in  its  place. 

Whipping  nor  hanging  now  could  change  the  gram. 
And  if  you  want  my  reason  on  this  head, 

It  is  that  whoso  looks  her  in  the  face. 

Though  he  were  old,  gets  back  his  youth  agam. 


VII. 

Sonnet. 
Of  the  loth  June,  1291. 

I  'm  full  of  everything  I  do  not  want 

And  have  not  that  wherein  I  should  find  ease; 

For  alway  till  Becchina  brings  me  peace 
The  heavy  heart  I  bear  must  toil  and  pant  ; 
That  so  all  written  paper  would  prove  scant 

(Though  in  its  space  the  Bible  you  might  squeeze) 

To  say  how  like  the  flames  of  furnaces 
I  burn,  remembering  what  she  used  to  grant. 
Because  the  stars  are  fewer  in  heaven's  span 

Than  all  those  kisses  wherewith  I  kept  tune 
All  in  an  instant  (I  who  now  have  none  !) 
Upon  her  mouth  (I  and  no  other  man  !) 

So  sweetly  on  the  twentieth  day  of  June 

In  the  new  year  2  twelve  hundred  ninety-one. 

1  Perhaps  the  names  of  his  father's  estates.  xu^  -.,fU  Mor^v. 

2  The  year  accordine  to  the  calendar  of  those  days,  began  on  the  25th  March. 
The  alterS  to  ist  January  was  made  in  1582  by  the  Pope  and  inimediately 
adopted  by  all  Catholic  countries,  but  by  England  not  till  175-  There  is  |f  "J^^^^//^ 
vividness  in  remembering  that  Cecco's  unplatonic  l"^'e-encounter  dates  eleven  days 
after  the  first  death-anniversary  of  Beatrice  (gth  of  J}'"^,  1 201),  when  Dante  tells  us 
that  he  "  drew  the  resemblance  of  an  angel  upon  certam  tablets,        (See  ante,  p.  68  ) 


134  Cecco  Augia  Iteri. 


Vili. 

Sonnet. 
In  absence  from  Becchina. 

My  heart 's  so  heavy  with  a  hundred  things 

That  I  feel  dead  a  hundred  times  a-day  ; 
Yet  death  would  be  the  least  of  sufferings, 

For  life  's  all  suffering  save  what 's  slept  away  ; 
Though  even  in  sleep  there  is  no  dream  but  brings 

From  dream-land  such  dull  torture  as  it  may. 
And  yet  one  moment  would  pluck  out  these  stings, 

If  for  one  moment  she  were  mine  to-day 
Who  gives  my  heart  the  anguish  that  it  has. 

Each  thought  that  seeks  my  heart  for  its  abode 
Becomes  a  wan  and  sorrow-stricken  guest  : 
Sorrow  has  brought  me  to  so  sad  a  pass 

That  men  look  sad  to  meet  me  on  the  road  ; 
Nor  any  road  is  mine  that  leads  to  rest. 


IX. 

Sonnet. 
Of  Becchina  in  a  rage. 

When  I  behold  Becchina  in  a  rage, 
Just  like  a  little  lad  I  trembling  stand 
Whose  master  tells  him  to  hold  out  his  hand  ; 

Had  I  a  lion's  heart,  the  sight  would  wage 

Such  war  against  it,  that  in  that  sad  stage 

I  'd  wish  my  birth  might  never  have  been  plann'd, 
And  curse  the  day  and  hour  that  I  was  bann'd 

With  such  a  plague  for  my  life's  heritage. 

Yet  even  if  I  should  sell  me  to  the  Fiend, 
I  must  so  manage  matters  in  some  way 
That  for  her  rage  I  may  not  care  a  lig  ; 

Or  else  from  death  I  cannot  long  be  screen'd. 

So  I  '11  not  blink  the  fact,  but  plainly  say 

It 's  time  I  got  my  valor  to  grow  big. 


Cecco  Angio lievi.  135 


X. 

Sonnet. 

He  rails  against  Dante,  who  had  censured  his  homage  to 

Becchina,  -f  ^ 

Dante  Alighieri  in  Becchina's  praise 

Won't  have  me  sing,  and  bears  him  h'ke  my  lord. 

He  's  but  a  pinchbeck  florin,  on  my  word  ; 
Sugar  he  seems,  but  salt 's  in  all  his  ways  ; 
He  looks  like  wheaten  bread,  who  's  bread  of  maize  ; 

He  's  but  a  sty,  though  like  a  tower  in  height; 

A  falcon,  till  you  find  that  he  's  a  kite  ; 
Call  him  a  cock  !  — a  hen  's  more  like  his  case. 
Go  now  to  Florence,  Sonnet  of  my  own. 

And  there  with  dames  and  maids  hold  pretty  paries, 
And  say  that  all  he  is  doth  only  seem. 
And  I  meanwhile  will  make  him  better  known 

Unto  the  Count  of  Provence,  good  King  Charles  ;  1 
And  in  this  way  we  '11  singe  his  skin  for  him. 


XL 

Sonnet. 
Of  his  four  Tormentors. 

I  'm  caught,  like  any  thrush  the  nets  surprise, 

By  Daddy  and  Becchina,  Mammy  and  Love. 
As  to  the  first-named,  let  thus  much  suffice,  — 

Each  day  he  damns  me,  and  each  hour  thereof  ; 
Becchina  wants  so  much  of  all  that  's  nice. 

Not  Mahomet  himself  could  yield  enough  : 
And  Love  still  sets  me  doting  in  a  trice 

On  trulls  who  'd  seem  the  Ghetto's  proper  stuff. 
My  mother  don't  do  much  because  she  can't, 

But  I  may  count  it  just  as  good  as  done, 
Knowing  the  way  and  not  the  will  's  her  want. 

To-day  I  tried  a  kiss  with  her  —  just  one  — 
To  see  if  I  could  make  her  sulks  avaunt  : 

She  said,  "  The  devil  rip  you  up,  my  son  !  " 

^  This  may  be  either  Charles  II.,  King  of  Naples  and  Count  of  Provence,  or  more 
probably  his  son  Charles  Martel,  King  of  Hungary.  We  know  from  Dante  that  a 
friendship  subsisted  between  himself  and  the  latter  prince,  who  visited  Florence  in 
1295,  and  died  in  the  same  year,  in  his  father's  lifetime.     {Paradise,  C.  viii.) 


136  Cecco  Aftgio Iteri. 


XII. 

Sonnet. 
Concerning  his  Father. 

The  dreadful  and  the  desperate  hate  I  bear 
My  father  (to  my  praise,  not  to  my  shame), 
Will  make  him  live  more  than  Methusalem  ; 

Of  this  I  've  long  ago  been  made  aware. 

Now  tell  me,  Nature,  if  my  hate  's  not  fair. 
A  glass  of  some  thin  wine  not  worth  a  name 
One  day  I  begged  (he  has  whole  butts  o'  the  same), 

And  he  had  almost  killed  me,  I  declare. 

"  Good  Lord,  if  I  had  asked  for  vernage-wine  !  " 
Said  I  ;  for  if  he  'd  spit  into  my  face 
I  wished  to  see  for  reasons  of  my  own. 

Now  say  that  I  may  n't  hate  this  plague  of  mine  ! 
Why,  if  you  knew  what  I  know  of  his  ways. 

You  'd  tell  me  that  I  ought  to  knock  him  down.^ 


XIIL 

Sonnet. 

Of  all  he  would  do. 

If  I  were  fire,  I  'd  burn  the  world  away  ; 

If  I  were  wind,  I  'd  turn  my  storms  thereon  ; 

If  I  were  water,  I  'd  soon  let  it  drown  ; 
If  I  were  God,  I  'd  sink  it  from  the  day  ; 
If  I  were  Pope,  I  'd  never  feel  quite  gay 

Until  there  was  no  peace  beneath  the  sun  ; 

If  I  were  Emperor,  what  would  I  have  done  ?  — 
I  'd  lop  men's  heads  all  round  in  my  own  way. 
If  I  were  Death,  I  'd  look  my  father  up  ; 

If  I  were  Life,  I  'd  run  away  from  him  ; 

And  treat  my  mother  to  like  calls  and  runs. 
If  I  were  Cecco  (and  that 's  all  my  hope), 

I  'd  pick  the  nicest  girls  to  suit  my  whim, 
And  other  folk  should  get  the  ugly  ones. 

I  have  thought  it  necessary  to  soften  one  or  two  expressions  in  this  sonnet. 


Cecco  Angiolieri.  137 


XIV. 

Sonnet. 

He  is  past  all  Help. 

For  a  thing  done,  repentance  is  no  good, 

Nor  to  say  after,  Thus  would  I  have  done  : 
In  life,  what  's  left  behind  is  vainly  rued  ; 

So  let  a  man  get  used  his  hurt  to  shun  ; 
For  on  his  legs  he  hardly  may  be  stood 

Again,  if  once  his  fall  be  well  begun. 
But  to  show  w^isdom  's  what  I  never  could  ; 

So  where  I  itch  I  scratch  now,  and  all 's  one. 
I  'm  down,  and  cannot  rise  in  any  way  : 

For  not  a  creature  of  my  nearest  kin 

Would  hold  me  out  a  hand  that  I  could  reach. 
I  pray  you  do  not  mock  at  what  I  say  ; 

For  so  my  love's  good  grace  may  I  not  win 
If  ever  sonnet  held  so  true  a  speech  ! 


XV. 

Sonnet. 
Of  why  he  is  imhanged.  "^ 

Whoever  without  money  is  in  love 

Had  better  build  a  gallows  and  go  hang  ; 

He  dies  not  once,  but  oftener  feels  the  pang 
Than  he  who  was  cast  down  from  Heaven  above. 
And  certes,  for  my  sins,  it 's  plain  enough, 

If  Love  's  alive  on  earth,  that  he  's  myself. 

Who  would  not  be  so  cursed  with  want  of  pelf 
If  others  paid  my  proper  dues  thereof. 
Then  why  am  I  not  hanged  by  my  own  hands  ì 

I  answer:  for  this  empty  narrow  chink 

Of  hope  ;  —  that  I  've  a  father  old  and  rich, 
And  that  if  once  he  dies  I  '11  get  his  lands  ; 

And  die  he  must,  when  the  sea  's  dry,  I  think. 

Meanwhile  God  keeps  him  whole  and  me  i'  the  ditch. 


-r 


138  Cecco  Angio lievi. 


XVI. 

Sonnet. 

Of  why  he  would  be  a  Scullion. 

I  AM  SO  out  of  love  through  poverty 
That  if  I  see  my  mistress  in  the  street 
I  hardly  can  be  certain  whom  I  meet, 

And  of  her  name  do  scarce  remember  me. 

Also  my  courage  it  has  made  to  be 

So  cold,  that  if  I  suffered  some  foul  cheat, 

Even  from  the  meanest  wretch  that  one  could  beat, 

Save  for  the  sin  I  think  he  should  go  free. 

Ay,  and  it  plays  me  a  still  nastier  trick; 

For,  meeting  some  who  erewhile  with  me  took 
Delight,  I  seem  to  them  a  roaring  fire. 

So  here  's  a  truth  whereat  I  need  not  stick  ;  — 
That  if  one  could  turn  scullion  to  a  cook. 
It  were  a  thing  to  which  one  might  aspire. 


XVII. 
Prolonged  Sonnet. 

\   '  Wheji  his  Clothes  were  gone. 

^        Never  so  bare  and  naked  was  church-stone 

As  is  my  clean-stripped  doublet  in  my  grasp  ; 
Also  I  wear  a  shirt  without  a  clasp, 

Which  is  a  dismal  thing  to  look  upon. 

Ah  !  had  I  still  but  the  sweet  coins  I  won 
That  time  I  sold  my  nag^and  staked  the  pay, 
I  'd  not  lie  hid  beneath  the  roof  to-day 

And  eke  out  sonnets  with  this  moping  moan. 

Daily  a  thousand  times  stark  mad  am  I 
At  my  dad's  meanness  who  won't  clothe  me  now, 

For  "  How  about  the  horse  ì  "  is  still  his  cry. 
Till  one  thing  strikes  me  as  clear  anyhow,  — 

No  rag  I  '11  get.     The  wretch  has  sworn,  I  see. 

Not  to  invest  another  doit  in  me. 

And  all  because  of  the  fine  doublet's  price 

He  gave  me,  when  I  vowed  to  throw  no  dice. 

And  for  his  damned  nag's  sake  !     Well,  this  is  nice  ! 


Cecco  Angio lievi.  139 


XVIII. 

Sonnet. 

He  argues  his  case  with  Death. 

Gramercy,  Death,  as  you  've  my  love  to  win, 

Just  be  impartial  in  your  next  assault  ; 

And  that  you  may  not  find  yourself  in  fault, 
Whatever  you  do,  be  quick  now  and  begin. 
As  oft  may  I  be  pounded  flat  and  thin 

As  in  Grosseto  there  are  grains  of  salt. 

If  now  to  kill  us  both  you  be  not  call'd,  — 
Both  me  and  him  who  sticks  so  in  his  skin. 
Or  better  still,  look  here  ;  for  if  I  'm  slain 

Alone,  —  his  wealth,  it 's  true,  I  '11  never  have, 
Yet  death  is  life  to  one  who  lives  in  pain  : 

But  if  you  only  kill  Saldagno's  knave, 
I  'm  left  in  Siena  (don't  you  see  your  gain  ?) 

Like  a  rich  man  who  's  made  a  galley-slave.^ 


XIX. 

Sonnet. 
Becchina,  and  of  her  Husband. 

I  WOULD  like  better  in  the  grace  to  be 

Of  the  dear  mistress  whom  I  bear  in  mind 
(As  once  I  was)  than  I  should  like  to  find 

A  stream  that  washed  up  gold  continually  : 

Because  no  language  could  report  of  me 

The  joys  that  round  my  heart  would  then  be  twin'd, 
Who  now,  without  her  love,  do  seem  resign'd 

To  death  that  bends  my  life  to  its  decree. 

And  one  thing  makes  the  matter  still  more  sad  : 

For  all  the  while  I  know  the  fault 's  my  own, 

That  on  her  husband  I  take  no  revenge, 

Who  's  worse  to  her  than  is  to  me  my  dad. 

God  send  grief  has  not  pulled  my  courage  down. 
That  hearing  this  I  laugh  ;  for  it  seems  strange. 

*  He  means,  possibly,  that  he  should  be  more  than  ever  tormented  by  his  creditors, 
on  account  of  their  knowing  his  ability  to  pay  them  ;  but  the  meaning  seems  very 
uncertain. 


140  Cecco  Angio Iteri. 


XX. 

Sonnet. 
To  Becchmà's  rich  Husband}- 

As  thou  wert  loath  to  see,  before  thy  feet, 
The  dear  broad  coin  roll  all  the  hill-slope  down, 
Till,  gathering  it  from  rifted  clods,  some  clown 

Should  rub  it  oft  and  scarcely  render  it  ;  — 

Tell  me,  I  charge  thee,  if  by  generous  heat 
Or  clutching  frost  the  fruits  of  earth  be  grown, 
And  by  what  wind  the  blight  is  o'er  them  strown, 

And  with  what  gloom  the  tempest  is  replete. 

Yet  daily,  in  good  sooth,  as  morn  by  morn 

Thou  hear'st  the  voice  of  thy  poor  husbandman 
And  those  loud  herds,  his  other  family,  — 

I  know,  as  surely  as  Becchina  's  born 
With  a  kind  heart,  she  does  the  best  she  can 

To  filch  at  least  one  new-bought  prize  from  thee. 


XXI. 

Sonnet. 

On  the  Death  of  his  Father. 

Let  not  the  inhabitants  of  Hell  despair, 

For  one  's  got  out  who  seemed  to  be  locked  in  ; 
And  Cecco  's  the  poor  devil  that  I  mean. 

Who  thought  for  ever  and  ever  to  be  there. 

But  the  leaf  's  turned  at  last,  and  I  declare 
That  now  my  state  of  glory  doth  begin  : 
For  Messer  Angiolieri  's  slipped  his  skin, 

Who  plagued  me,  summer  and  winter,  many  a  year. 

Make  haste  to  Cecco,  Sonnet,  with  a  will, 
To  him  who  no  more  at  the  Abbey  dwells  ; 
Tell  him  that  Brother  Henry  's  half  dried  up.2 

He  '11  never  more  be  down-at-mouth,  but  fill 
His  beak  at  his  own  beck,^  till  his  life  swells 
To  more  than  Enoch's  or  Elijah's  scope. 

1  This  puzzling  sonnet  is  printed  in  Italian  collections  with  the  name  of  Guido 
Cavalcanti.  It  must  evidently  belong  to  Angiolieri,  and  it  has  certain  fine  points 
which  make  me  unwilling  to  omit  it  ;  though  partly  as  to  rendering,  and  wholly  as  to 
application,  I  have  been  driven  on  conjecture. 

2  It  would  almost  seem  as  if  Cecco,  in  his  poverty,  had  at  last  taken  refuge  in  a 
religious  house  under  the  name  of  Brother  Henry  (/^rai?^  ^rr?^o),  and  as  if  he  here 
meant  that  Brother  Henry  was  now  decayed,  so  to  speak,  through  the  resuscitation  of 
Cecco.     (See  Introduction  to  Part  /.,  p.  23.) 

•"  In  the  original  words,  "  Ma  di  tal  cibo  imbecchi  lo  suo  becco,"  a  play  upon  the 
name  of  Becchina  seems  intended,  which  I  have  conveyed  as  well  as  I  could. 


Cecco  Angio lievi.  141 


XXII. 

Sonnet. 
He  would  slay  all  who  hate  their  Fathers. 

Who  utters  of  his  father  aught  but  praise, 

'Twere  well  to  cut  his  tongue  out  of  his  mouth  ; 
Because  the  Deadly  Sins  are  seven,  yet  doth 

No  one  provoke  such  ire  as  this  must  raise. 

Were  I  a  priest,  or  monk  in  anyways, 

Unto  the  Pope  my  first  respects  were  paid, 
Saying,  "  Holy  Father,  let  a  just  crusade 

Scourge  each  man  who  his  sire's  good  name  gainsays.' 

And  if  by  chance  a  handful  of  such  rogues 
At  any  time  should  come  into  our  clutch, 

I  'd  have  them  cooked  and  eaten  then  and  there. 

If  not  by  men,  at  least  by  wolves  and  dogs. 
The  Lord  forgive  me  !  for  I  fear  me  much 

Some  words  of  mine  were  rather  foul  than  fair. 


XXIII. 

TO    DANTE    ALIGHIERI. 

Sonnet. 

He  writes  to  Dante,  then  in  exile  at  Verojta,  defying  him  as 
no  better  than  himself. 

Dante  Alighieri,  if  I  jest  and  lie, 

You  in  such  lists  might  run  a  tilt  with  me  : 

I  get  my  dinner,  you  your  supper,  free  ; 
And  if  I  bite  the  fat,  you  suck  the  fry  ; 
I  shear  the  cloth  and  you  the  teazle  ply  ; 

If  I  've  a  strut,  who  's  prouder  than  you  are  ? 

If  I  'm  foul-mouthed,  you  're  not  particular  ; 
And  you  're  turned  Lombard,  even  if  Roman  I. 
So  that,  'fore  Heaven  !  if  either  of  us  flings 

Much  dirt  at  the  other,  he  must  be  a  fool  : 
For  lack  of  luck  and  wit  we  do  these  things. 

Yet  if  you  want  more  lessons  at  my  school, 
Just  say  so,  and  you  '11  find  the  next  touch  stings  — 

For,  Dante,  I  'm  the  goad  and  you  're  the  bull. 


142  Guido  Orlandi. 


GUIDO   ORLANDI.i 

Sonnet, 
Against  the  "  White  "  Ghibellines. 

Now  of  the  hue  of  ashes  are  the  Whites  ; 
And  they  go  following  now  after  the  kind 
Of  creatures  we  call  crabs,  which,  as  some  find, 

Will  only  seek  their  natural  food  o'  nights. 

All  day  they  hide  ;  their  flesh  has  such  sore  frights 
Lest  death  be  come  for  them  on  every  wind, 
Lest  now  the  Lion's  ^  wrath  be  so  inclined 

That  they  may  never  set  their  sin  to  rights. 

Guelf  were  they  once,  and  now  are  Ghibelline  : 
Nothing  but  rebels  henceforth  be  they  named,  — 
State-foes,  as  are  the  Uberti,  every  one. 

Behold,  against  the  Whites  all  men  must  sign 
Some  judgment  whence  no  pardon  can  be  claim'd 
Excepting  they  were  offered  to  Saint  John.^ 

1  Several  other  pieces  by  this  author,  addressed  to  Guido  Cavalcanti  and  Dante  da 
Maiano,  wall  be  found  among  their  poems. 

2  That  is,  Florence. 

3  That  is,  presented  at  the  high  altar  on  the  feast-day  of  St.  John  the  Baptist  ;  a 
ceremony  attending  the  release  of  criminals,  a  certain  number  of  whom  were  annually 
pardoned  on  that  day  in  Florence.  This  was  the  disgraceful  condition  annexed  to 
that  recall  to  Florence  which  Dante  received  when  in  exile  at  the  court  of  Verona  ; 
which  others  accepted,  but  which  was  refused  by  him  in  a  memorable  epistle  still  pre- 
served. 


Lapo  Gianni.  143 


LAPO  GIANNI. 


Madrigal. 

What  Love  shall  provide  for  him. 

Love,  I  demand  to  have  my  lady  in  fee. 

Fine  balm  let  Arno  be  ; 
The  walls  of  Florence  all  of  silver  rear'd, 
And  crystal  pavements  in  the  public  way. 

With  castles  make  me  fear'd, 
Till  every  Latin  soul  have  owned  my  sway. 

Be  the  world  peaceful  ;  safe  throughout  each  path  ; 

No  neighbor  to  breed  wrath  ; 
The  air,  summer  and  winter,  temperate. 

A  thousand  dames  and  damsels  richly  clad 

Upon  my  choice  to  wait. 
Singing  by  day  and  night  to  make  me  glad. 

Let  me  have  fruitful  gardens  of  great  girth, 
Filled  with  the  strife  of  birds, 
With  water-springs,  and  beasts  that  house  i'  the  earth. 

Let  me  seem  Solomon  for  lore  of  words, 
Samson  for  strength,  for  beauty  Absalom. 

Knights  as  my  serfs  be  given  ; 
And  as  I  will,  let  music  go  and  come  ; 
Till  at  the  last  thou  brinof  me  into  Heaven. 


144  Lapo  Gianni. 


II. 

Ballata. 
A  Message  in  charge  for  his  Lady  Lagia. 

Ballad,  since  Love  himself  hath  fashioned  thee 
Within  my  mind  where  he  doth  make  abode, 
Hie  thee  to  her  who  through  mine  eyes  bestow'd 

Her  blessing  on  my  heart,  which  stays  with  me. 

Since  thou  wast  born  a  handmaiden  of  Love, 
With  every  grace  thou  shouldst  be  perfected, 
And  everywhere  seem  gentle,  wise,  and  sweet. 
And  for  that  thine  aspect  gives  sign  thereof, 

I  do  not  tell  thee,  "  Thus  much  must  be  said  :  "  — 
Hoping,  if  thou  inh  eri  test  my  wit. 
And  com'st  on  her  when  speech  may  ill  befit, 
That  thou  wilt  say  no  words  of  any  kind  : 
But  when  her  ear  is  graciously  inclin'd. 
Address  her  without  dread  submissively. 

Afterward,  when  thy  courteous  speech  is  done 
(Ended  with  fair  obeisance  and  salute 
To  that  chief  forehead  of  serenest  good), 
Wait  thou  the  answer  which,  in  heavenly  tone. 
Shall  haply  stir  between  her  lips,  nigh  mute 
For  gentleness  and  virtuous  womanhood. 
And  mark  that,  if  my  homage  please  her  mood, 
No  rose  shall  be  incarnate  in  her  cheek. 
But  her  soft  eyes  shall  seem  subdued  and  meek, 
And  almost  pale  her  face  for  delicacy. 

For,  when  at  last  thine  amorous  discourse 

Shall  have  possessed  her  spirit  with  that  fear 
Of  thoughtful  recollection  which  in  love 
Comes  first,  —  then  say  thou  that  my  heart  implores 
Only  without  an  end  to  honor  her. 

Till  by  God's  will  my  living  soul  remove  : 
That  I  take  counsel  oftentimes  with  Love  ; 
For  he  first  made  my  hope  thus  strong  and  rife,_ 
Through  whom  my  heart,  my  mind,  and  all  my  life, 
Are  given  in  bondage  to  her  seigniory. 

Then  shalt  thou  find  the  blessed  refuge  girt 
r  the  circle  of  her  arms,  where  pity  and  grace 
Have  sojourn,  with  all  human  excellence  : 


Lapo  Gianni.  145 


Then  shalt  thou  feel  her  gentleness  exert 
Its  rule  (unless,  alack  !  she  deem  thee  base): 
Then  shalt  thou  know  her  sweet  intelligence  : 
Then  shalt  thou  see  —  O  marvel  most  intense  ! 
What  thing  the  beauty  of  the  angels  is, 
And  what  are  the  miraculous  harmonies 

Whereon  Love  rears  the  heights  of  sovereignty. 

Move,  Ballad,  so  that  none  take  note  of  thee. 
Until  thou  set  thy  footsteps  in  Love's  road. 
Having  arrived,  sjDeak  with  thy  visage  bow'd, 

And  bring  no  false  doubt  back,  or  jealousy. 


10 


146  Dhw  Frescobaldi. 


DINO   FRESCOBALDI. 

I. 

Sonnet. 

Of  what  his  Lady  is. 

This  is  the  damsel  by  whom  love  is  brought 

To  enter  at  his  eyes  that  looks  on  her; 

This  is  the  righteous  maid,  the  comforter, 
Whom  every  virtue  honors  unbesought. 
Love,  journeying  with  her,  unto  smiles  is  wrought, 

Showing  the  glory  which  surrounds  her  there  ; 

Who,  when  a  lowly  heart  prefers  its  prayer. 
Can  make  that  its  transgression  come  to  nought. 
And,  when  she  giveth  greeting,  by  Love's  rule. 

With  sweet  reserve  she  somewhat  lifts  her  eyes, 
Bestowing  that  desire  which  speaks  to  us. 
Alone  on  what  is  noble  looks  she  thus. 

Its  opposite  rejecting  in  like  wise, 
This  pitiful  young  maiden  beautiful. 

II. 
Sonnet. 

Of  the  Star  of  his  Love. 

That  star  the  highest  seen  in  heaven's  expanse 
Not  yet  forsakes  me  with  its  lovely  light  : 
It  gave  me  her  who  from  her  heaven's  pure  height 

Gives  all  the  grace  mine  intellect  demands. 

Thence  a  new  arrow  of  strength  is  in  my  hands 
Which  bears  good-will  whereso  it  may  alight  ; 
So  barbed,  that  no  man's  body  or  soul  its  flight 

Has  wounded  yet,  nor  shall  wound  any  man's. 

Glad  am  I  therefore  that  her  grace  should  fall 
Not  otherwise  than  thus;  whose  rich  increase 
Is  such  a  power  as  evil  cannot  dim. 

My  sins  within  an  instant  perished  all 

When  I  inhaled  the  light  of  so  much  peace. 
And  this  Love  knows  ;  for  I  have  told  it  him. 


Giotto  di  Bondone.  147 


GIOTTO   DI   BONDONE. 

Canzone. 

Of  the  DoctrÌ7ie  of  Voluntary  Poverty. 

Many  there  are,  praisers  of  Poverty  ; 
The  which  as  man's  best  state  is  register'd 

When  by  free  choice  preferr'd, 
With  strict  observance  having  nothing  here. 
For  this  they  find  certain  authority 
Wrought  of  an  over-nice  interpreting. 

Now  as  concerns  such  thing, 
A  hard  extreme  it  doth  to  me  appear. 

Which  to  commend  I  fear, 
For  seldom  are  extremes  without  some  vice. 

Let  every  edifice, 
Of  work  or  word,  secure  foundation  find  ; 

Against  the  potent  wind, 
And  all  things  perilous,  so  well  prepar'd 
That  it  need  no  correction  afterward. 


Of  poverty  which  is  against  the  will, 
It  never  can  be  doubted  that  therein 

Lies  broad  the  way  to  sin. 
For  oftentimes  it  makes  the  judge  unjust  : 
In  dames  and  damsels  doth  their  honor  kill  ; 
And  begets  violence  and  villanies, 

And  theft  and  wicked  lies. 
And  casts  a  good  man  from  his  fellows'  trust. 

And  for  a  little  dust 
Of  gold  that  lacks,  wit  seems  a  lacking  too. 

If  once  the  coat  give  view 
Of  the  real  back,  farewell  all  dignity. 

Each  therefore  strives  that  he 
Should  by  no  means  admit  her  to  his  sight. 
Who,  only  thought  on,  makes  his  face  turn  white. 

Of  poverty  which  seems  by  choice  elect, 
I  may  pronounce  from  plain  experience,  — 
Not  of  mine  own  pretence,  — 


48  Giotto  di  Bojidoìie. 

That  't  is  observed  or  unobserved  at  will. 
Nor  its  observance  asks  our  full  respect  : 
For  no  discernment,  nor  integrity, 

Nor  lore  of  life,  nor  plea 
Of  virtue,  can  her  cold  regard  instil. 

I  call  it  shame  and  ill 
To  name  as  virtue  that  which  stifles  good. 

I  call  it  grossly  rude, 
On  a  thing  bestial  to  make  consequent 

Virtue's  inspired  advent 
To  understanding  hearts  acceptable  : 
For  the  most  wise  most  love  with  her  to  dwell. 

Here  mayst  thou  find  some  issue  of  demur  : 
For  lo  !  our  Lord  commendeth  poverty. 

Nay,  what  His  meaning  be 
Search  well  :  His  words  are  wonderfully  deep, 
Oft  doubly  sensed,  asking  interpreter. 
The  state  for  each  most  saving,  is  His  will 

For  each.     Thine  eyes  unseal, 
And  look  within,  the  inmost  truth  to  reap. 

Behold  what  concord  keep 
His  holy  words  with  His  most  holy  life. 

In  Him  the  power  was  rife 
Which  to  all  things  apportions  time  and  place. 

On  earth  He  chose  such  case  : 
And  why  ?     'T  was  His  to  point  a  higher  life. 

But  here,  on  earth,  our  senses  show  us  still 

How  they  who  preach  this  thing  are  least  at  peace, 

And  evermore  increase 
Much  thought  how  from  this  thing  they  should  escape. 
For  if  one  such  a  lofty  station  fill, 
He  shall  assert  his  strength  like  a  wild  wolf, 

Or  daily  mask  himself 
Afresh,  until  his  will  be  brought  to  shape  ; 

Ay,  and  so  wear  the  cape 
That  direst  wolf  shall  seem  like  sweetest  lamb 

Beneath  the  constant  sham. 
Hence,  by  their  art,  this  doctrine  plagues  the  world  : 

And  hence,  till  they  be  hurl'd 
From  where  they  sit  in  high  hypocrisy. 
No  corner  of  the  world  seems  safe  to  me. 

Go,  Song,  to  some  sworn  owls  that  we  have  known, 
And  on  their  folly  bring  them  to  reflect  : 

But  if  they  be  stiff-neck'd. 
Belabor  them  until  their  heads  are  down. 


Simone  dall'  A  ut  e  Ila.  149 


SIMONE   DALL'   ANTELLA. 

Prolonged  Soxnet. 
Iji  the  last  Days  of  the  Emperor  Henry  VII. 

Along  the  road  all  shapes  must  travel  by, 
How  swiftly,  to  my  thinking,  now  doth  fare 
The  wanderer  who  built  his  watchtower  there 

Where  wind  is  torn  with  wind  continually  ! 

Lo  !  from  the  world  and  its  dull  pain  to  fly, 
Unto  such  pinnacle  did  he  repair. 
And  of  her  presence  was  not  made  aware. 

Whose  face,  that  looks  like  Peace,  is  Death's  own  lie. 

Alas,  Ambition,  thou  his  enemy. 

Who  lurest  the  poor  wanderer  on  his  way. 

But  never  bring'st  him  where  his  rest  may  be,  — 
O  leave  him  now,  for  he  is  gone  astray 

Himself  out  of  his  very  self  through  thee. 
Till  now  the  broken  stems  his  feet  betray. 

And,  caught  with  boughs  before  and  boughs  behind, 

Deep  in  thy  tangled  wood  he  sinks  entwin'd. 


150  Giovanili  Qtiirino. 


GIOVANNI   QUIRINO  TO   DANTE   ALIGHIERI. 


Sonnet. 

He  commends  the  work  of  Dante's  life,  then  drawing  to  its 
close  ;  and  deplores  his  own  deficiencies. 

Glory  to  God  and  to  God's  Mother  chaste, 
Dear  friend,  is  all  the  labor  of  thy  days  : 
Thou  art  as  he  who  evermore  uplays 

That  heavenly  wealth  which  the  worm  cannot  waste  : 

So  shalt  thou  render  back  with  interest 

The  precious  talent  given  thee  by  God's  grace  : 
While  I,  for  my  part,  follow  in  their  ways 

Who  by  the  cares  of  this  world  are  possess'd. 

For,  as  the  shadow  of  the  earth  doth  make 

The  moon's  globe  dark,  when  so  she  is  debarr'd 
From  the  bright  rays  which  lit  her  in  the  sky,  — 

So  now,  since  thou  my  sun  didst  me  forsake 
(Being  distant  from  me),  I  grow  dull  and  hard. 
Even  as  a  beast  of  Epicurus'  sty. 


Dante  A  lighieri.  151 


DANTE  ALIGHIERI  TO   GIOVANNI    QUIRINO. 


Sonnet. 

He  answers  the  foregoitig  Sonnet  j  saying  what  he  feels  at 
the  approach  of  Death. 

The  King  by  whose  rich  grace  His  servants  be 

With  plenty  beyond  measure  set  to  dwell 

Ordains  that  I  my  bitter  wrath  dispel 
And  lift  mine  eyes  to  the  great  consistory  ; 
Till,  noting  how  in  glorious  choirs  agree 

The  citizens  of  that  fair  citadel, 

To  the  Creator  I  His  creature  swell 
Their  song,  and  all  their  love  possesses  me. 

So,  when  I  contemplate  the  great  reward 

To  which  our  God  has  called  the  Christian  seed, 
I  long  for  nothing  else  but  only  this. 
And  then  my  soul  is  grieved  in  thy  regard, 

Dear  friend,  who  reck'st  not  of  thy  nearest  need, 
Renouncing  for  slight  joys  the  perfect  bliss. 


APPENDIX   TO   PART   I. 


Forese  Donati. 


What  follows  relates  to  the  very  filmiest  of  all  the  will-o'- 
the-wisps  which  have  beset  me  in  making  this  book.  I 
should  be  glad  to  let  it  lose  itself  in  its  own  quagmire,  but 
am  perhaps  bound  to  follow  it  as  far  as  may  be. 

Ubaldini,  in  his  Glossary  to  Barberino  (published  in  1640, 
and  already  several  times  referred  to  here),  has  a  rather 
startling  entry  under  the  word  Vendetta. 

After  describing  this  "  custom  of  the  country,"  he  says  : 
"To  leave  a  vengeance  unaccomplished  was  considered 
very  shameful  ;  and  on  this  account  Forese  de'  Donati  sneers 
at  Dante,  who  did  not  avenge  his  father  Alighieri  ;  saying  to 
him  ironically,  — 

'  Ben  so  che  fosti  figliuol  d'  Alighieri  ; 
Ed  accorgomen  pure  alia  vendetta 
Che  facesti  di  lui  sì  bella  e  netta  ;  ' 

and  hence  perhaps  Dante  is  menaced  in  Hell  by  the  Spirit 
of  one  of  his  race." 

Now  there  is  no  hint  to  be  found  anywhere  that  Dante's 
father,  who  died  about  1270,  in  the  poet's  childhood,  came 
by  his  death  in  any  violent  way.  The  spirit  met  in  Hell 
(C.  xxix.)  is  Geri  son  of  Bello  Alighieri,  and  Dante's  great- 
uncle  ;  and  he  is  there  represented  as  passing  his  kinsman  in 
contemptuous  silence  on  account  of  his  ow?i  death  by  the 
hand  of  one  of  the  Sacchetti,  which  remained  till  then 
unavenged,  and  so  continued  till  after  Dante's  death,  when 
Clone  Alighieri  fulfilled  the  vendetta  by  slaying  a  Sacchetti  at 


154  Appendix  to  Part  I. 

the  door  of  his  house.  If  Dante  is  really  the  person  ad- 
dressed in  the  sonnet  quoted  by  Ubaldini,  I  think  it  prob- 
able (as  I  shall  show  presently  when  I  give  the  whole  sonnet) 
that  the  ironical  allusion  is  to  the  death  of  Geri  Alighieri. 
But  indeed  the  real  writer,  the  real  subject,  and  the  real 
object  of  this  clumsy  piece  of  satire,  seem  about  equally 
puzzling. 

Forese  Donati,  to  whom  this  Sonnet  and  another  I  shall 
quote  are  attributed,  was  the  brother  of  Gemma  Donati, 
Dante's  wife,  and  of  Corso  and  Piccarda  Donati.  Dante 
introduces  him  in  the  Purgatory  (C.  xxiii.)  as  expiating  the 
sin  of  gluttony.  From  what  is  there  said,  he  seems  to  have 
been  well  known  in  youth  to  Dante,  who  speaks  also  of 
having  wept  his  death  ;  but  at  the  same  time  he  hints  that 
the  Hfe  they  led  together  was  disorderly  and  a  subject  for 
regret.  This  can  hardly  account  for  such  violence  as  is 
shown  in  these  sonnets,  said  to  have  been  written  from  one 
to  the  other  ;  but  it  is  not  impossible,  of  course,  that  a  ran- 
cor, perhaps  temporary,  may  have  existed  at  some  time 
between  them,  especially  as  Forese  probably  adhered  with 
the  rest  of  his  family  to  the  party  hostile  to  Dante.  At  any 
rate,  Ubaldini,  Crescimbeni,  Quadrio,  and  other  writers  on 
Italian  Poetry,  seem  to  have  derived  this  impression  from  the 
poems  which  they  had  seen  in  MS.  attributed  to  Forese. 
They  all  combine  in  stigmatizing  Forese's  supposed  produc- 
tions as  very  bad  poetry,  and  in  fact  this  seems  the  only 
point  concerning  them  which  is  beyond  a  doubt.  The  four 
sonnets  of  which  I  now  proceed  to  give  such  translations  as 
I  have  found  possible  were  first  published  together  in  1812 
by  Fiacchi,  who  states  that  he  had  seen  two  separate  an- 
cient MSS.  in  both  of  which  they  were  attributed  to  Dante 
and  Forese.  In  rendering  them,  I  have  no  choice  but  to 
adopt  in  a  positive  form  my  conjectures  as  to  their  mean- 
ing; but  that  I  view  these  only  as  conjectures  will  appear 
afterwards. 

I. 

Dante  Alighieri  to  Forese  Doxati. 

He  taunts  Forese,  by  the  nickname  of  Bicci. 

O  Bicci,  pretty  son  of  who  knows  whom 
Unless  thy  mother  Lady  Tessa  tell.  — 
Thy  gullet  is  already  crammed  too  well, 


Appeìidix  to  Part  I.  155 

Yet  others'  food  thou  needs  must  now  consume. 
Lo  !  he  that  wears  a  purse  makes  ample  room 

When  thou  goest  by  in  any  pubHc  place. 

Saying,  "  This  fellow  with  the  branded  face 
Is  thief  apparent  from  his  mother's  womb." 
And  I  know  one  who  's  fain  to  keep  his  bed 

Lest  thou  shouldst  filch  it,  at  whose  birth  he  stood 
Like  Joseph  when  the  world  its  Christmas  saw. 
Of  Bicci  and  his  brothers  it  is  said 

That  with  the  heat  of  misbegotten  blood 

Among  their  wives  they  are  nice  brothers-in-law. 


IL 

Forese  Donati  to  Dante  Alighieri. 

He  taunts  Dante  ironically  for  not  avenging  Gerì  Alighieri, 

Right  well  I  know  thou  'rt  Alighieri's  son  ; 

Nay,  that  revenge  alone  might  warrant  it, 

Which  thou  didst  take,  so  clever  and  complete, 
For  thy  great-uncle  who  awhile  agone 
Paid  scores  in  full.     Why,  if  thou  hadst  hewn  one 

In  bits  for  it,  't  were  early  still  for  peace  ! 

But  then  thy  head  's  so  heaped  with  things  like  these 
That  they  would  weigh  two  sumpter-horses  down. 
Thou  hast  taught  us  a  fair  fashion,  sooth  to  say,  — 

That  whoso  lays  a  stick  well  to  thy  back, 
Thy  comrade  and  thy  brother  he  shall  be. 
As  for  their  names  who  've  shown  thee  this  good  play, 

I  '11  tell  thee,  so  thou  'It  tell  me  all  the  lack 
Thou  hast  of  help,  that  I  may  stand  by  thee. 


III. 

Dante  Alighieri  to  Forese  Donati. 

He  taunts  hi;n  concerning  his  Wife. 

To  hear  the  unlucky  wife  of  Bicci  cough, 

(Bicci,  —  Forese  as  he  's  called,  you  know,  — ) 

You  'd  fancy  she  had  wintered,  sure  enough,  » 

Where  icebergs  rear  themselves  in  constant  snow  :  \t?V^^\vv 
And  Lord  !  if  in  mid-August  it  is  so,  ^r     \V^^ 

How  in  the  frozen  months  must  she  come  off? 

To  wear  her  socks  abed  avail^.tiot,  — no,  OV 

Nor  quilting  from  Cortona,  warm  and  tough. 


v,i^\^^^ 


56  Appendix  to  Part  I. 

Her  cough,  her  cold,  and  all  her  other  ills, 
Do  not  afflict  her  through  the  rheum  of  age, 

But  through  some  want  within  her  nest,  poor  spouse  ! 
This  grief,  with  other  griefs,  her  mother  feels. 
Who  says,  "  Without  much  trouble,  I  11  engage. 
She  might  have  married  in  Count  Guido's  house  !" 


IV. 

Forese  Donati  to  Dante  Alighieri. 

He  taunts  him  concerning  the  unavenged  Spirit  of 
Geri  Alighieri. 

The  other  night  I  had  a  dreadful  cough 

Because  I  'd  got  no  bed-clothes  over  me  ; 
And  so,  when  the  day  broke,  I  hurried  off 

To  seek  some  gain  whatever  it  might  be. 
And  such  luck  as  I  had  I  tell  you  of. 

For  lo  !  no  jewels  hidden  in  a  tree 
I  find,  nor  buried  gold,  nor  suchlike  stuff, 

But  Alighieri  among  the  graves  I  see, 
Bound  by  some  spell,  I  know  not  at  whose  'hest, — 

At  Solomon's,  or  what  sage's  who  shall  say? 
Therefore  I  crossed  myself  towards  the  east  ; 

And  he  cried  out  :    "  For  Dante's  love  I  pray 
Thou  loose  me  !  "    But  I  knew  not  in  the  least 

How  this  were  done,  so  turned  and  went  my  way. 

Now  all  this  may  be  pronounced  little  better  than  scur- 
rilous doggerel,  and  I  would  not  have  introduced  any  of  it, 
had  I  not  wished  to  include  everything  which  could  possibly 
belong  to  my  subject. 

Even  supposing  that  the  authorship  is  correctly  attributed 
in  each  case,  the  insults  heaped  on  Dante  have  of  course  no 
weight,  as  coming  from  one  who  shows  every  sign  of  being 
both  foul-mouthed  and  a  fool.  That  then  even  the  observ- 
ance of  the  vendetta  had  its  opponents  among  the  laity,  is 
evident  from  a  passage  in  Barberino's  Documejiti  d'  Amore. 
The  two  sonnets  bearing  Dante's  name,  if  not  less  offensive 
than  the  others,  are  rather  more  pointed  ;  but  seem  still  very 
unworthy  even  of  his  least  exalted  mood. 

Accordingly  Fraticelli  (in  his  Minor  lVo?'ks  of  Dante) 
setdes  to  his  own  satisfaction  that  these  four  sonnets  are  not 
by  Dante  and  Forese;    but  I  do  not  think  his  arguments 


Appendix  to  Part  I.  157 

conclusive  enough  to  set  the  matter  quite  at  rest.  He  first 
states  positively  that  Sonnet  I.  (as  above)  is  by  Burchiello, 
the  Florentine  barber-poet  of  the  fifteenth  century.  How- 
ever, it  is  only  to  be  found  in  one  edition  of  Burchiello,  and 
that  a  late  one,  of  1757,  where  it  is  placed  among  the  pieces 
which  are  very  doubtfully  his.  It  becomes  all  the  more 
doubtful  when  we  find  it  there  followed  by  Sonnet  H.  (as 
above),  which  would  seem  by  all  evidence  to  be  at  any  rate 
written  by  a  different  person  from  the  first,  whoever  the 
writers  of  both  may  be.  Of  this  sonnet  Fraticelli  seems  to 
state  that  he  has  seen  it  attributed  in  one  MS.  to  a  certain 
Bicci  Novello  ;  and  adds  (but  without  giving  any  authority) 
that  it  was  addressed  to  some  descendant  of  the  great  poet, 
also  bearing  the  name  of  Dante.  Sonnet  HI.  is  pronounced 
by  Fraticelli  to  be  of  uncertain  authorship,  though  if  the  first 
is  by  Burchiello,  so  must  this  be.  He  also  decides  that  the 
designation,  "  Bicci,  vocato  Forese,"  shows  that  Forese  was 
the  nickname  and  Bicci  the  real  name  ;  but  this  is  surely 
quite  futile,  as  the  way  in  which  the  name  is  put  is  to  the 
full  as  likely  to  be  meant  in  ridicule  as  in  earnest.  Lastly,  of 
Sonnet  IV.  Fraticelli  says  nothing. 

It  is  now  necessary  to  explain  that  Sonnet  II.,  as  I  translate 
it,  is  made  up  from  two  versions,  the  one  printed  by  Fiacchi 
and  the  one  given  among  Burchiello's  poems  ;  while  in  one 
respect  I  have  adopted  a  reading  of  my  own.  I  would  make 
the  first  four  lines  say  — 

Ben  so  che  fosti  figliuol  d'  Alighieri  : 

Ed  accorgomen  pure  alia  vendetta 

Che  facesti  di  lui,  sì  bella  e  netta, 
Dell'  avolin  che  die  cambio  1'  altrieri. 

Of  the  two  printed  texts  one  says,  in  the  fourth  line  — 

Dell'  aguglin  ched  ei  cambiò  1'  altrieri  ; 

and  the  other, 

Degli  auguglin  che  die  cambio  V  altrieri. 

"Agughno"  would  be  '^  eaglet,"  and  with  this,  the  whole 
sense  of  the  line  seems  quite  unfathomable  :  whereas  at  the 
same  time  "  aguglino  "  would  not  be  an  unlikely  corrupt 
transcription,  or  even  corrupt  version,  of  "■  avolino,"  which 
again  (according  to  the  often  confused  distinctions  of  Italian 


158  Appeìidix  to  Part  L 

relationships)  might  well  be  a  modification  of  "  avolo  " 
(grandfather),  meaning  great-uncle.  The  reading  would 
thus  be,  "  La  vendetta  che  facesti  di  lui  {i.  e.)  delP  avolino 
che  die  cambio  1'  altrieri  ;  "  translated  literally,  "  The  ven- 
geance which  you  took  for  him,  —  for  your  great-uncle  who 
gave  change  the  other  day."  Geri  Alighieri  might  indeed 
have  been  said  to  ^'  give  change  "or  ''  pay  scores  in  full  " 
by  his  death,  as  he  himself  had  been  the  aggressor  in  the  first 
instance,  having  slain  one  of  the  Sacchetti,  and  been  after- 
wards slain  himself  by  another. 

I  should  add  that  I  do  not  think  the  possibility,  however 
questionable,  of  these  sonnets  being  authentically  by  Dante 
and  Forese,  depends  solely  on  the  admission  of  this  word 
"avolino." 

The  rapacity  attributed  to  the  "  Bicci  "  of  Sonnet  I.  seems 
a  tendency  somewhat  akin  to  the  insatiable  gluttony  which 
Forese  is  represented  as  expiating  in  Dante's  Purgatory. 
Mention  is  also  there  made  of  Forese's  wife,  though  certainly 
in  a  very  different  strain  from  that  of  Sonnet  III.  ;  but  it  is 
not  impossible  that  the  poet  might  have  intended  to  make 
amends  to  her  as  well  as  in  some  degree  to  her  husband's 
memory.  I  am  really  more  than  half  ashamed  of  so  many 
"possibles"  and  "not  impossibles;"  but  perhaps,  having 
been  led  into  the  subject,  am  a  little  incHned  that  the  reader 
should  be  worried  with  it  like  myself. 

At  any  rate,  considering  that  these  Sonnets  are  attributed 
by  various  old  manuscripts  to  Dante  and  Forese  Donati  ;  — 
that  various  writers  (beginning  with  Ubaldini,  who  seems  to 
have  ransacked  libraries  more  than  almost  any  one)  have 
spoken  of  these  and  other  sonnets  by  Forese  against  Dante, 
—  that  the  feud  between  the  Ahghieri  and  Sacchetti,  and  the 
death  of  Geri,  were  certainly  matters  of  unabated  bitterness 
in  Dante's  lifetime,  as  we  find  the  vendetta  accomplished 
even  after  his  death,  —  and  lastly,  that  the  sonnets  attributed 
to  Forese  seem  to  be  plausibly  referable  to  this  subject,  — 
I  have  thought  it  pardonable  towards  myself  and  my  readers 
to  devote  to  these  ill-natured  and  not  very  refined  produc- 
tions this  very  long  and  tiresome  note. 

Crescimbeni  {Storia  della  Volgar  Poesia)  gives  another 
sonnet  against  Dante  as  being  written  by  Forese  Donati,  and 
it  certainly  resembles  these  in  style.  I  should  add  that  their 
obscurity  of  mere  language  is  excessive,  and  that  my  transla- 


Appendix  to  Part  I.  159 

tions  tlierefore  are  necessarily  guesswork  here  and  there  ; 
though  as  to  this  I  may  spare  particulars  except  in  what 
affects  the  question  at  issue.  In  conclusion,  I  hope  I  need 
hardly  protest  against  the  inference  that  my  translations  and 
statements  might  be  shown  to  abound  in  dubious  makeshifts 
and  whimsical  conjectures  ;  though  it  would  be  admitted,  on 
going  over  the  ground  I  have  traversed,  that  it  presents  a 
difficulty  of  some  kind  at  almost  every  step. 


II. 

Cecco  d'  Ascoli. 

There  is  one  more  versifier,  contemporary  with  Dante,  to 
whom  I  might  be  expected  to  refer.  This  is  the  ill-fated 
Francesco  Stabili,  better  known  as  Cecco  d'  Ascoli,  who  was 
burnt  by  the  Inquisition  at  Florence  in  1327,  as  a  heretic, 
though  the  exact  nature  of  his  offence  is  involved  in  some 
mystery.  He  was  a  narrow,  discontented,  and  self-sufficient 
writer  ;  and  his  incongruous  poem  in  sesta  rhna,  called 
U' Acerba,  contains  various  references  to  the  poetry  of 
Dante  (whom  he  knew  personally)  as  well  as  to  that  of 
Guido  Cavalcanti,  made  chiefly  in  a  supercilious  spirit. 
These  allusions  have  no  poetical  or  biographical  value  what- 
ever, so  I  need  say  no  more  of  them  or  their  author.  And 
indeed  perhaps  the  "  Bicci  "  sonnets  are  quite  enough  of 
themselves  in  the  way  of  absolute  trash. 


III. 

Giovanni  Boccaccio. 

Several  of  the  little-known  sonnets  of  Boccaccio  have 
reference  to  Dante,  but,  being  written  in  the  generation 
which  followed  his,  do  not  belong  to  the  body  of  my  first 
division.  I  therefore  place  three  of  them  here,  together 
with  a  few  more  specimens  from  the  same  poet. 

There  is  nothing  which  gives  Boccaccio  a  greater  claim 
to  our  regard  than  the  enthusiastic  reverence  with  which  he 


1 60  Appendix  to  Part  I. 

loved  to  dwell  on  the  Commedia  and  on  the  memory  of 
Dante,  who  died  when  he  was  seven  years  old.  This  is 
amply  proved  by  his  Life  of  the  Poet  and  Commentary  on 
the  Poem,  as  well  as  by  other  passages  in  his  writings  both 
in  prose  and  poetry.  The  first  of  the  three  following  son- 
nets relates  to  his  public  reading  and  elucidation  of  Dante, 
which  took  place  at  Florence,  by  a  decree  of  the  State,  in 
1373.  The  second  sonnet  shows  how  the  greatest  minds  of 
the  generation  which  immediately  succeeded  Dante  already 
paid  unhesitating  tribute  to  his  political  as  well  as  poetical 
greatness.  In  the  third  sonnet,  it  is  interesting  to  note  the 
personal  love  and  confidence  with  which  Boccaccio  could 
address  the  spirit  of  his  mighty  master,  unknown  to  him  in 
the  flesh. 

I. 
To  one  who  had  cetisured  his  public  Exposition  of  Dante. 

If  Dante  mourns,  there  wheresoe'er  he  be, 
That  such  high  fancies  of  a  soul  so  proud 
Should  be  laid  open  to  the  vulgar  crowd 

(As,  touching  my  Discourse,  I  'm  told  by  thee). 

This  were  my  grievous  pain  ;  and  certainly 
My  proper  blame  should  not  be  disavowed  ; 
Though  hereof  somewhat,  I  declare  aloud. 

Were  due  to  others,  not  alone  to  me. 

False  hopes,  true  poverty,  and  therewithal 
The  blinded  judgment  of  a  host  of  friends. 
And  their  entreaties,  made  that  I  did  thus. 

But  of  all  this  there  is  no  gain  at  all 

Unto  the  thankless  souls  with  whose  base  ends 
Nothing  agrees  that 's  great  or  generous. 


II. 

Inscj'iption  for  a  portrait  of  Dante. 

Dante  Alighieri,  a  dark  oracle 

Of  wisdom  and  of  art,  I  am  ;  whose  mind 
Has  to  my  country  such  great  gifts  assign'd 

That  men  account  my  powers  a  miracle. 

My  lofty  fancy  passed  as  low  as  Hell, 

As  high  as  Heaven,  secure  and  unconfin'd  ; 
And  in  my  noble  book  doth  every  kind 

Of  earthlv  lore  and  heavenlv  doctrine  dwell. 


Appendix  to  Part  I.  i6i 

Renowned  Florence  was  my  mother,  —  nay, 
Stepmother  unto  me  her  piteous  son, 

Through  sin  of  cursed  slander's  tongue  and  tooth. 
Ravenna  sheltered  me  so  cast  away  ; 

My  body  is  with  her,  —  my  soul  with  One 
For  whom  no  envy  can  make  dim  the  truth. 


III. 

To  Dante  in  Paradise^  after  Fiammetta'' s  death. 

Dante,  if  thou  within  the  sphere  of  Love, 
As  I  believe,  remain'st  contemplating 
Beautiful  Beatrice,  whom  thou  didst  sing 

Erewhile,  and  so  wast  drawn  to  her  above  ;  — 

Unless  from  false  life  true  life  thee  remove 
So  far  that  Love  's  forgotten,  let  me  bring 
One  prayer  before  thee  :  for  an  easy  thing 

This  were,  to  thee  whom  I  do  ask  it  of. 

I  know  that  where  all  joy  doth  most  abound 
In  the  Third  Heaven,  my  own  Fiammetta  sees 
The  grief  which  I  have  borne  since  she  is  dead. 

O  pray  her  (if  mine  image  be  not  drown'd 
In  Lethe)  that  her  prayers  may  never  cease 
Until  I  reach  her  and  am  comforted. 

I  add  three  further  examples  of  Boccaccio's  poetry, 
chosen  for  their  beauty  alone.  Two  of  these  relate  to  Maria 
d'  Aquino,  if  she  indeed  be  the  lady  whom,  in  his  writings, 
he  calls  Fiammetta.  The  third  has  a  playful  charm  very 
characteristic  of  the  author  of  the  Decameron;  while  its 
beauty  of  color  (to  our  modern  minds,  privileged  to  review 
the  whole  pageant  of  Italian  Art)  might  recall  the  painted 
pastorals  of  Giorgione. 

IV. 

Of  Fiammetta  singing. 

Love  steered  my  course,  while  yet  the  sun  rode  high, 
On  Scylla's  waters  to  a  myrtle-grove  : 
The  heaven  was  still  and  the  sea  did  not  move  ; 

Yet  now  and  then  a  little  breeze  went  by 
Stirring  the  tops  of  trees  against  the  sky  : 
And  then  I  heard  a  song  as  glad  as  love, 

So  sweet  that  never  yet  the  like  thereof 
Was  heard  in  any  mortal  company. 


102  Appendix  to  Part  I. 

"  A  nymph,  a  goddess,  or  an  angel  sings 
Unto  herself,  within  this  chosen  place, 

Of  ancient  loves  ;  "  so  said  I  at  that  sound. 
And  there  my  lady,  'mid  the  shadowings 

Of  myrtle-trees,  'mid  flowers  and  grassy  space, 
Singing  I  saw,  with  others  who  sat  round. 


V. 

Of  his  last  sight  of  Fiammetta. 

Round  her  red  garland  and  her  golden  hair 

I  saw  a  fire  about  Fiammetta's  head  ; 

Thence  to  a  little  cloud  I  watched  it  fade. 
Than  silver  or  than  gold  more  brightly  fair  : 
And  like  a  pearl  that  a  gold  ring  doth  bear, 

Even  so  an  angel  sat  therein,  who  sped 

Alone  and  glorious  throughout  heaven,  array'd 
In  sapphires  and  in  gold  that  lit  the  air. 
Then  I  rejoiced  as  hoping  happy  things, 
Who  rather  should  have  then  discerned  how  God 

Had  haste  to  make  my  lady  all  His  own, 
Even  as  it  came  to  pass.     And  with  these  stings 

Of  sorrow,  and  with  life's  most  weary  load 
I  dwell,  who  fain  would  be  where  she  is  gone. 

VI. 

Of  three  Girls  and  of  their  Talk. 

By  a  clear  well,  within  a  little  field 

Full  of  green  grass  and  flowers  of  every  hue, 
Sat  three  young  girls,  relating  (as  I  knew) 

Their  loves.     And  each  had  twined  a  bough  to  shield 

Her  lovely  face  ;  and  the  green  leaves  did  yield 
The  golden  hair  their  shadow;  while  the  two 
Sweet  colors  mingled,  both  blown  lightly  through 

With  a  soft  wind  for  ever  stirred  and  still'd. 

After  a  little  while  one  of  them  said 

(I  heard  her),  "  Think  !    If,  ere  the  next  hour  struck, 
Each  of  our  lovers  should  come  here  to-day, 

Think  you  that  we  should  fly  or  feel  afraid  ?  " 
To  whom  the  others  answered,  "  From  such  luck 
A  girl  would  be  a  fool  to  run  away." 

End  of  Part  I. 


TABLE   OF   POETS   IN   PART   II. 


I.  CiULLO  d'  Alcamo,  1172-78. 

Ciullo^is  a  popular  form  of  the  name  Vincenzo,  and  Alcamo 
an  Arab  fortress  some  miles  from  Palermo.  7'he  Dialogue, 
which  is  the  only  known  production  of  this  poet,  holds  here  the 
place  generally  accorded  to  it  as  the  earliest  Italian  poem 
(exclusive  of  one  or  two  dubious  inscriptions)  which  has  been 
preserved  to  our  day.  Arguments  have  sometimes  been  brought 
to  prove  that  it  must  be  assigned  to  a  later  date  than  the  poem 
by  Folcachiero,  which  follows  it  in  this  volume  ;  thus  ascribing 
the  first  honors  of  Italian  poetry  to  Tuscany,  and  not  to  Sicily, 
as  is  commonly  supposed.  Trucchi,  however  (in  the  preface 
to  his  valuable  collection),  states  his  belief  that  the  two  poems 
are  about  contemporaneous,  fixing  the  date  of  that  by  Giulio 
between  11 72  and  11 78,  —  chiefly  from  the  fact  that  the  fame  of 
Saladin,  to  whom  this  poet  alludes,  was  most  in  men's  mouths 
during  that  interval.  At  first  sight,  aily  casual  reader  of  the 
original  would  suppose  that  this  poem  must  be  unquestionably 
the  earliest  of  all,  as  its  language  is  far  the  most  unformed  and 
difiicult  ;  but  much  of  this  might,  of  course,  be  dependent  on 
the  inferior  dialect  of  Sicily,  mixed  however  in  this  instance  (as 
far  as  I  can  judge)  with  mere  nondescript /rt; /<?/>. 

II.  Folcachiero  de'  Folcachieri,  Knight  of  Siena, 
1177. 

The  above  date  has  been  assigned  with  probability  to 
Folcachiero's  Canzone,  on  account  of  its  first  line,  where  the 
whole  world  is  said  to  be  "living  without  war  ;  "  an  assertion 
which  seems  to  refer  its  production  to  the  period  of  the  cele- 
brated peace  concluded  at  Venice  between  Frederick  Bar- 
barossa  and  Pope  Alexander  III. 

III.  Lodovico  della  Vernaccia,  1200. 


1 64  Table  of  Poets  in  Part  II. 


IV.  Saint  Francis  of  Assisi;   born,  1182;   died,  1226. 

His  baptismal  name  was  Giovanni,  and  his  father  was  Ber- 
nardone  Monconi,  whose  mercantile  pursuits  he  shared  till  the 
age  of  twenty-five  ;  after  which  his  life  underwent  the  extraordi- 
nary change  which  resulted  in  his  canonization,  by  Gregory  IX., 
three  years  after  his  death,  and  in  the  formation  of  the  Religious 
Order  called  Franciscans, 

V.  Frederick  IL,  Emperor;    born,  1194;    died,   1250. 

The  life  of  Frederick  II.,  and  his  excommunication  and 
deposition  from  the  Empire  by  Innocent  IV.,  to  whom,  how- 
ever, he  did  not  succumb,  are  matters  of  history  which  need  no 
repetition.  Intellectually,  he  was  in  all  ways  a  highly-gifted 
and  accomplished  prince;  and  lovingly  cultivated  the  Italian 
language,  in  preference  to  the  many  others  with  which  he  was 
familiar.  The  poem  of  his  which  I  give  has  great  passionate 
beauty;  yet  I  believe  that  an  allegorical  interpretation  may 
here  probably  be  admissible  ;  and  that  the  lady  of  the  poem 
may  be  the  Empire,  or  perhaps  the  Church  herself,  held  in 
bondage  by  the  Pope. 

VI.  Enzo,  King  of  Sardinia;   born,  1225;  died,  1272. 

The  unfortunate  Enzo  was  a  natural  son  of  Frederick  II., 
and  was  born  at  Palermo.  By  his  own  warlike  enterprise,  at 
an  early  age  (it  is  said  at  fifteen  !  )  he  subjugated  the  Island  of 
Sardinia,  and  was  made  King  of  it  by  his  father.  Afterwards 
he  joined  Frederick  in  his  war  against  the  Church,  and  dis- 
played the  highest  promise  as  a  leader  ;  but  at  the  age  of 
twenty-five  was  taken  prisoner  by  the  Bolognese,  whom  no 
threats  or  promises  from  the  Emperor  could  induce  to  set  him 
at  liberty.  He  died  in  prison  at  Bologna,  after  a  confinement 
of  nearly  twenty-three  years.  A  hard  fate  indeed  for  one  who, 
while  moving  among  men,  excited  their  hopes  and  homage, 
still  on  record,  by  his  great  military  genius  and  brilliant  gifts  of 
mind  and  person. 

VII.  Guido  Guinicelli,  1220. 

This  poet,  certainly  the  greatest  of  his  time,  belonged  to  a 
noble  and  even  princely  Bolognese  family.  Nothing  seems 
known  of  his  life,  except  that  he  was  married  to  a  lady  named 
Beatrice,  and  that  in  1274,  having  adhered  to  the  Imperial 
cause,  he  was  sent  into  exile,  but  whither  cannot  be  learned. 
He  died  two  years  afterwards.  The  highest  praise  has  been 
bestowed  by  Dante  on  Guinicelli,  in  the  CoDiinedia  (Purg.  C. 
xxvi.)  in  the   Convito^  and  in  the  De    Viilgari  Eloquio;  and 


Table  of  Poets  in  Part  II.  165 

many  instances  might  be  cited  in  which  the  works  of  the  great 
Florentine  contain  reminiscences  of  his  Bolognese  predecessor  ; 
especially  the  third  canzone  of  Dante's  Convito  may  be  com- 
pared with  Guido's  most  famous  one  "  On  the  Gentle  Heart." 

VIII.  GUERZO   DI    MONTECANTI,    T2  20. 

IX.  Inghilfredi,  Siciliano,  1220. 

X.  Rinaldo  d' Aquino,  1250. 

I  have  placed  this  poet,  belonging  to  a  Neapolitan  family, 
under  the  date  usually  assigned  to  him  :  but  Trucchi  states  his 
belief  that  he  flourished  much  earlier,  and  was  a  contemporary 
of  Folcachiero  ;  partly  on  account  of  two  lines  in  one  of  his 
poems  which  say,  — 

"  Lo  Imperadore  con  pace 
Tutto  il  mondo  mantene." 

If  so,  the  mistake  would  be  easily  accounted  for,  as  there  seem 
to  have  been  various  members  of  the  family  named  Rinaldo,  at 
different  dates. 

XI.  Jacopo  da  Lentino,  1250. 

This  Sicilian  poet  is  generally  called  "  the  Notary  of  Len- 
tino." The  low  estimate  expressed  of  him,  as  well  as  of  Bonag- 
giunta  and  Guittone,  by  Dante  (Purg.  C.  xxiv.),  must  be 
understood  as  referring  in  great  measure  to  their  want  of  gram- 
matical purity  and  nobility  of  style,  as  we  may  judge  when  the 
passage  is  taken  in  conjunction  with  the  principles  of  the  De 
Viilgari  Eloquio.  However,  Dante  also  attributes  his  own 
superiority  to  the  fact  of  his  writing  only  when  love  (or  natural 
impulse)  really  prompted  him,  —  the  highest  certainly  of  all 
laws  relating  to  art  :  — 

"  Io  mi  son  un  che  quando 
Amor  mi  spira,  noto,  ed  in  quel  modo 
Ch'  ei  detta  dentro,  vo  significando." 

A  translation  does  not  suffer  from  such  offences  of  dialect  as 
may  exist  in  its  original  ;  and  I  think  my  readers  will  agree 
that,  chargeable  as  he  is  with  some  conventionality  of  senti- 
ment, the  Notary  of  Lentino  is  often  not  without  his  claims  to 
beauty  and  feeling.  There  is  a  peculiar  charm  in  the  sonnet 
which  stands  first  among  my  specimens. 

XII.  Mazzeo  di  Ricco,  da  Messina,  1250. 

XIII.  Pannuccio  dal  Bagno,  Pisano,  1250. 


1 66  Table  of  Poets  in  Part  II. 

XIV.  Giacomino  Pugliesi,  Knight  of  Prato,  1250. 

Of  this  poet  there  seems  nothing  to  be  learnt  ;  but  he  de- 
serves special  notice  as  possessing  rather  nlore  poetic  individu- 
ality than  usual,  and  also  as  furnishing  the  only  instance,  among 
Dante's  predecessors,  of  a  poem  (and  a  very  beautiful  one) 
written  on  a  lady's  death. 

XV.  Fra  Guittone  d'Arezzo,  1250. 

Guittone  was  not  a  monk,  but  derived  the  prefix  to  his  name 
from  the  fact  of  his  belonging  to  the  religious  and  military 
order  of  Cavalieri  di  Santa  Maria.  He  seems  to  have  enjoyed 
a  greater  literary  reputation  than  almost  any  writer  of  his  day  ; 
but  certainly  his  poems,  of  which  many  have  been  preserved, 
cannot  be  said  to  possess  merit  of  a  prominent  kind  ;  and  Dante 
shows  by  various  allusions  that  he  considered  them  much  over- 
rated. The  sonnet  I  have  given  is  somewhat  remarkable,  from 
Petrarch's  having  transplanted  its  last  line  into  his  Trio7iJi  (V 
Ainore  (cap.  iii.).  Guittone  is  the  author  of  a  series  of  Italian 
letters  to  various  eminent  persons,  which  are  the  earliest  known 
epistolary  writings  in  the  language. 

XVI.  Bartolomeo  di  Sant'  Angelo,  1250. 

XVII.  Saladino  da  Pavia,  1250. 

XVIII.  Bonaggiunta  Urbiciani,  da  Lucca,  1250. 

XIX.  Meo  Abbracciavacca,  da  Pistoia,  1250. 

XX.  Ubaldo  di  Marco,  1250. 

XXI.  SiMBuoNo  Giudice,  1250. 

XXII.  Masolino  da  Todi,  1250. 

XXIII.  Onesto  di  Boncima,  Bolognese,  1250. 

Onesto  was  a  doctor  of  laws,  and  an  early  friend  of  Cino  da 
Pistoia.  He  was  living  as  late  as  1301,  though  his  career  as  a 
poet  may  be  fixed  somewhat  further  back. 

XXIV.  Terino  da  Castel  Fiorentino,  1250. 

XXV.  Maestro  Migliore,  da  Fiorenza,  1250. 

XXVI.  Dello  da  Signa,  1250. 

XXVII.  Folgore  da  San  Geminl\no,  1250. 


Table  of  Poets  in  Part  II.  1 6j 

XXVIII.  Guido  delle  Colonne,  1250. 

This  Sicilian  poet  has  few  equals  among  his  contemporaries, 
and  is  ranked  high  by  Dante  in  his  treatise  De  Vulgari  Eloquio. 
He  visited  England,  and  wrote  in  Latin  a  Historia  de  regions 
et  rebus  Afig/i(Z,  as  well  as  a  Historia  destructionis  Trojce. 

XXIX.  Pier  Moronelli,  di  Fiorenza,  1250. 

XXX.  CiuNCio  Fiorentino,  1250. 

XXXI.  Ruggieri  di  Amici,  Siciliano,  1250. 

XXXII.  Carnino  Ghiberti,  da  Fiorenza,  1250. 

XXXIII.  Prinzivalle  Doria,  1250. 

Prinzivalle  commenced  by  writing  Italian  poetry,  but  after- 
wards composed  verses  entirely  in  Provenga!,  for  the  love  of 
Beatrice,  Countess  of  Provence.  He  wrote  also,  in  Provengal 
prose,  a  treatise  "On  the  dainty  Madness  of  Love,"  and  another 
"  On  the  War  of  Charles,  King  of  Naples,  against  the  tyrant 
Manfredi."  He  held  various  high  offices,  and  died  at  Naples 
in  1276. 

XXXIV.  Rustico  di  Filippo;  born  about  1200;  died, 
1270. 

The  writings  of  this  Tuscan  poet  (called  also  Rustico  Bar- 
buto) show  signs  of  more  vigor  and  versatility  than  was  common 
in  his  day,  and  he  probably  began  writing  in  Italian  verse  even 
before  many  of  those  already  mentioned.  In  his  old  age,  he, 
though  a  Ghibelline,  received  the  dedication  of  the  Tesoretto 
from  the  Guelf  Brunetto  Latini,  who  there  pays  him  unqualified 
homage  for  surpassing  worth  in  peace  and  war.  It  is  strange 
that  more  should  not  be  known  regarding  this  doubtless  remark- 
able man.  His  compositions  have  sometimes  much  humor, 
and  on  the  whole  convey  the  impression  of  an  active  and  ener- 
getic nature.  Moreover,  Trucchi  pronounces  some  of  them 
to  be  as  pure  in  language  as  the  poems  of  Dante  or  Guido 
Cavalcanti,  though  written  thirty  or  forty  years  earlier. 

XXXV.  PUCCLARELLO   Dl    FIORENZA,   I260. 

XXXVI.  Albertuccio  della  Viola,  1260. 

XXXVII.  Tommaso  Buzzuola,  da  Faenza,  1280. 

XXXVIII.  NOFFO    BONAGUIDO,   I280. 

XXXIX.  Lippo  Paschi  de'  Bardi,  1280. 


1 68  Table  of  Poets  in  Part  IL 

XL.  Ser  Pace,  Notaio  da  Fiorenza,  1280. 

XLI.  Niccolò  degli  Albizzi,  1300. 

The  noble  Florentine  family  of  Albizzi  produced  writers  of 
poetry  in  more  than  one  generation.  The  vivid  and  admirable 
sonnet  which  I  have  translated  is  the  only  one  I  have  met  with 
by  Niccolò.  I  must  confess  my  inability  to  trace  the  circum- 
stances which  gave  rise  to  it. 

XLII.  Francesco  da  Barberino  ;  born,  1264  ;  died,  1348. 

With  the  exception  of  Brunetto  Latini  (whose  poems  are 
neither  very  poetical  nor  well  adapted  for  extract),  Francesco 
da  Barberino  shows  by  far  the  most  sustained  productiveness 
among  the  poets  who  preceded  Dante,  or  were  contemporaries 
of  his  youth.  Though  born  only  one  year  in  advance  of  Dante, 
Barberino  seems  to  have  undertaken,  if  not  completed,  his  two 
long  poetic  treatises,  some  years  before  the  commencement  of 
the  Cojnjuedia. 

This  poet  was  born  at  Barberino  di  Valdelsa,  of  a  noble  family, 
his  father  being  Neri  di  Rinuccio  da  Barberino.  Up  to  the 
year  of  his  father's  death,  1296,  he  pursued  the  study  of  law 
chiefly  in  Bologna  and  Padua;  but  afterwards  removed  to 
Florence  for  the  same  purpose,  and  seems  to  have  been  there, 
even  earlier,  one  of  the  many  distinguished  disciples  of  Brunetto 
Latini,  who  probably  had  more  influence  than  any  other  one 
man  in  forming  the  youth  of  his  time  to  the  great  things  they 
accomplished.  After  this  he  travelled  in  France  and  elsewhere; 
and  on  his  return  to  Italy  in  13 13,  was  the  first  who,  by  special 
favor  of  Pope  Clement  V.,  received  the  grade  of  Doctor  of  Laws 
in  Florence.  Both  as  lawyer  and  as  citizen,  he  held  great  trusts 
and  discharged  them  honorably.  He  was  twice  married,  the 
name  of  his  second  wife  being  Barna  di  Tano,  and  had  several 
children.  At  the  age  of  eighty-four  he  died  in  the  great  Plague 
of  Florence.  Of  the  tw^o  works  which  Barberino  has  left,  one 
bears  the  title  of  Documenti  cf  Amore,  literally  "  Documents  of 
Love,"  but  perhaps  more  properly  rendered  as  "  Laws  of  Cour- 
tesy ;  "  while  the  other  is  called  Del  Reggimento  e  dei  Costumi 
delle  Donne,  —  "Of  the  Government  and  Conduct  of  Women." 
They  may  be  described,  in  the  main,  as  manuals  of  good  breed- 
ing, or  social  chivalry,  the  one  for  men  and  the  other  for  wo- 
men. Mixed  with  vagueness,  tediousness,  and  not  seldom  with 
artless  absurdity,  they  contain  much  simple  wisdom,  much  curi- 
ous record  of  manners,  and  (as  my  specimens  show)  occasional 
poetic  sweetness  or  power,  though  these  last  are  far  from  being 
their  most  prominent  merits.  The  first-named  treatise,  however, 
has  much  more  of  such  qualities  than  the  second  ;  and  contains, 
moreover,  passages  of  homely  humor  which  startle  by  their  truth 


Table  of  Poets  in  Part  IL  169 

as  if  written  yesterday.  At  the  same  time,  the  second  book  is 
quite  as  well  worth  reading,  for  the  sake  of  its  authoritative 
minuteness  in  matters  which  ladies,  now-a-days,  would  probably 
consider  their  own  undisputed  region  ;  and  also  for  the  quaint 
gravity  of  certain  surprising  prose  anecdotes  of  real  life,  with 
which  it  is  interspersed.  Both  these  works  remained  long  un- 
printed,  the  first  edition  of  the  Documenti  cf  Amore  being  that 
edited  by  Ubaldini  in  1640,  at  which  time  he  reports  the  ^\eg- 
gimento,  etc.,  to  be  only  possessed  by  his  age  "  in  name  and  in 
desire."  This  treatise  was  afterwards  brought  to  light,  but 
never  printed  till  181 5.  I  should  not  forget  to  state  that  Bar- 
berino attained  some  knowledge  of  drawing,  and  that  Ubaldini 
had  seen  his  original  MS.  of  the  Documenti,  containing,  as  he 
says,  skilful  miniatures  by  the  author. 

Barberino  never  appears  to  have  taken  a  very  active  part  in 
politics,  but  he  inclined  to  the  Imperial  and  Ghibelline  party. 
This  contributes  with  other  things  to  render  it  rather  singular 
that  we  find  no  poetic  correspondence  or  apparent  communi- 
cation of  any  kind  between  him  and  his  many  great  country- 
men, contemporaries  of  his  long  life,  and  with  whom  he  had 
more  than  one  bond  of  sympathy.  His  career  stretched  from 
Dante,  Guido  Cavalcanti,  and  Gino  da  Pistoia,  to  Petrarca  and 
Boccaccio;  yet  only  in  one  respectful  but  not  enthusiastic 
notice  of  him  by  the  last-named  writer  {Genealogia  degli  Dei), 
do  we  ever  meet  with  an  allusion  to  him  by  any  of  the  greatest 
men  of  his  time.  Nor  in  his  own  writings,  as  far  as  I  remem- 
ber, are  they  ever  referred  to.  His  epitaph  is  said  to  have  been 
written  by  Boccaccio,  but  this  is  doubtful. 

For  some  interesting  notices  of,  and  translations  from,  Bar- 
berino, I  may  refer  the  reader  to  the  tract  on  "  Italian  Courtesy 
Books,"  by  my  brother  W.  M.  Rossetti,  issued  by  the  Early 
English  Text  Society. 

XLIII.  Fazio  degli  Uberti,  1326-60. 

The  dates  of  this  poet's  birth  and  death  are  not  ascertainable, 
but  I  have  set  against  his  name  two  dates  which  result  from 
his  writings  as  belonging  to  his  lifetime.  He  was  a  member  of 
that  great  house  of  the  Uberti  which  was  driven  from  Florence 
on  the  expulsion  of  the  Ghibellines  in  1267,  and  which  was  ever 
afterwards  specially  excluded  by  name  from  the  various  amnes- 
ties offered  from  time  to  time  to  the  exiled  Florentines.  His 
grandfather  was  Farinata  degli  Uberti,  whose  stern  nature,  un- 
yielding even  amid  penal  fires,  has  been  recorded  by  Dante  in 
the  tenth  canto  of  the  hiferno.  Farinata's  son  Lapo,  himself  a 
poet,  was  the  father  of  Fazio  (/.  e.  Bonifazio),  who  was  no  doubt 
born  in  the  lifetime  of  Dante,  and  in  some  place  of  exile,  but 
where  is  not  known.     In  his  youth  he  was  enamoured  of  a  cer- 


1 70  Table  of  Poets  in  Part  II. 

tain  Veronese  lady  named  Angiola,  and  was  afterwards  married, 
but  whether  to  her  or  not  is  again  among  the  uncertainties. 
Certain  it  is  that  he  had  a  son  named  Leopardo,  who,  after  his 
father's  death  at  Verona,  settled  in  Venice,  where  his  descend- 
ants maintained  an  honorable  rank  for  the  space  of  two  suc- 
ceeding centuries.  Though  Fazio  appears  to  have  suffered 
sometimes  from  poverty,  he  enjoyed  high  reputation  as  a  poet, 
and  is  even  said,  on  the  authority  of  various  early  writers,  to 
have  publicly  received  the  laurel  crown  ;  but  in  what  city  of 
Italy  this  took  place  we  do  not  learn. 

There  is  much  beauty  in  several  of  Fazio's  lyrical  poems,  of 
which,  however,  no  great  number  have  been  preserved.  The 
finest  of  all  is  the  Canzone  which  I  have  translated  ;  whose  ex- 
cellence is  such  as  to  have  procured  it  the  high  honor  of  being 
attributed  to  Dante,  so  that  it  is  to  be  found  in  most  editions  of 
the  Canzoniere  ;  and  as  far  as  poetic  beauty  is  concerned,  it 
must  be  allowed  to  hold  even  there  an  eminent  place.  Its 
style,  however  (as  Monti  was  the  first  to  point  out  in  our  own 
day,  though  Ubaldini,  in  his  Glossary  to  Barberino,  had  already 
quoted  it  as  the  work  of  Fazio),  is  more  particularizing  than  ac- 
cords with  the  practice  of  Dante;  while,  though  certainly  more 
perfect  than  any  other  poem  by  Fazio,  its  manner  is  quite  his  ; 
bearing  especially  a  strong  resemblance  throughout  in  structure 
to  one  canzone,  where  he  speaks  of  his  love  with  minute  refer- 
ence to  the  seasons  of  the  year.  Moreover,  Fraticelli  tells  us 
that  it  is  not  attributed  to  Dante  in  any  one  of  the  many  ancient 
MSS.  he  had  seen,  but  has  been  fathered  on  him  solely  on  the 
authority  of  a  printed  collection  of  15 18.  This  contested  Can- 
zone is  well  worth  fighting  for  ;  and  the  victor  would  deserve 
to  receive  his  prize  at  the  hands  of  a  peerless  Queen  of  Beauty, 
for  never  was  beauty  better  described.  I  beheve  we  may  de- 
cide that  the  triumph  belongs  by  right  to  Fazio. 

An  exile  by  inheritance,  Fazio  seems  to  have  acquired  rest- 
less tastes  ;  and  in  the  latter  years  of  his  life  (which  was  pro- 
longed to  old  age),  he  travelled  over  a  great  part  of  Europe, 
and  composed  his  long  poem  e^niitXtd  II Ditta7no7tdo,  —  "The 
Song  of  the  World."  This  work,  though  by  no  means  con- 
temptible in  point  of  execution,  certainly  falls  far  short  of  its 
conception,  which  is  a  grand  one  ;  the  topics  of  which  it  treats 
in  great  measure,  —  geography  and  natural  history,  —  render- 
ing it  in  those  days  the  native  home  of  all  credulities  and  mon- 
strosities. In  scheme  it  was  intended  as  an  earthly  parallel  to 
Dante's  Sacred  Poem,  doing  for  this  world  what  he  did  for  the 
other.  At  Fazio's  death  it  remained  unfinished,  but  I  should 
think  by  very  little  ;  the  plan  of  the  work  seeming  in  the  main  ac- 
complished. The  whole  earth  (or  rather  all  that  was  then  known 
of  it)  is  traversed,  —  its  surface  and  its  history,  —  ending  with 
the  Holy  Land,  and  thus  bringing  Man's  world  as  near  as  may 


Table  of  Poets  in  Part  IL  1 7  r 

be  to  God's  ;  that  is,  to  the  point  at  which  Dante's  office  be- 
gins. No  conception  could  well  be  nobler,  or  worthier  even  now 
of  being  dealt  with  by  a  great  master.  To  the  work  of  such  a 
man,  Fazio's  work  might  afford  such  first  materials  as  have 
usually  been  furnished  beforehand  to  the  greatest  poets  by 
some  unconscious  steward. 

XLIV.   Franco  SACCHEni  ;   born,   1335;   died,  shortlv 

AFTER  1400. 

This  excellent  writer  is  the  only  member  of  my  gathering 
who  was  born  after  the  death  of  Dante,  which  event  (in  1321) 
preceded  Franco's  birth  by  some  fourteen  years.  I  have  in- 
troduced a  few  specimens  of  his  poetry,  partly  because  their 
attraction  was  irresistible,  but  also  because  he  is  the  earliest 
Italian  poet  with  whom  playfulness  is  the  chief  characteristic  ;  for 
even  with  Boccaccio,  in  his  poetry,  this  is  hardly  the  case,  and 
we  can  but  ill  accept  as  playfulness  the  cynical  humor  of  Cecco 
Angiolieri  :  perhaps  Rustico  di  Filippo  alone  might  put  in 
claims  to  priority  in  this  respect.  However,  Franco  Sacchetti 
wrote  poems  also  on  political  subjects  ;  and  had  he  belonged 
more  strictly  to  the  period  of  which  I  treat,  there  is  no  one  who 
would  better  have  deserved  abundant  selection.  Besides  his 
poetry,  he  is  the  author  of  a  well-known  series  of  three  hundred 
stories  ;  and  Trucchi  gives  a  list  of  prose  works  by  him  which 
are  still  in  MS.,  and  whose  subjects  are  genealogical,  historical, 
natural-historical,  and  even  theological.  He  was  a  prolific 
writer,  and  one  who  well  merits  complete  and  careful  publica- 
tion. The  pieces  which  I  have  translated,  like  many  others  of 
his,  are  written  for  music. 

Franco  Sacchetti  was  a  Florentine  noble  by  birth,  and  was 
the  son  of  Benci  di  Uguccione  Sacchetti.  Between  this  family 
and  the  Alighieri  there  had  been  a  veitdetta  of  long  standing 
(spoken  of  here  in  the  Appendix  to  Part  I.),  but  which  was 
probably  set  at  rest  before  Franco's  time,  by  the  deaths  of  at 
least  one  Alighieri  and  two  Sacchetti.  After  some  years  passed 
in  study.  Franco  devoted  himself  to  commerce,  like  many  nobles 
of  the  republic,  and  for  that  purpose  spent  some  time  in  Scla- 
vonia,  whose  uncongenial  influences  he  has  recorded  in  an  amus- 
ing poem.  As  his  literary  fame  increased,  he  was  called  to 
many  important  offices  ;  was  one  of  the  Priori  in  1383,  and  for 
some  time  was  deputed  to  the  government  of  Faenza,  in  the 
absence  of  its  lord,  Astorre  Manfredi.  He  was  three  times 
married;  to  Felice  degli  Strozzi,  to  Ghita  Gherardini,  and  to 
Nannina  di  Santi  Bruni. 

XLV.   Anonymous  Poems. 


172  e  ini  lo  d'  Alcamo, 


CIULLO   D'  ALCAMO. 

Dialogue, 
Lover  and  Lady. 

He. 

Thou  sweetly-smelling  fresh  red  rose 

That  near  thy  summer  art, 
Of  whom  each  damsel  and  each  dame 

Would  fain  be  counterpart  ; 
Oh  !  from  this  fire  to  draw  me  forth 
Be  it  in  thy  good  heart  : 
For  night  or  day  there  is  no  rest  with  me, 
Thinking  of  none,  my  lady,  but  of  thee. 

She. 

If  thou  hast  set  thy  thoughts  on  me, 

Thou  hast  done  a  foolish  thing. 
Yea,  all  the  pine-wood  of  this  world 

Together  might'st  thou  bring, 
And  make  thee  ships,  and  plough  the  sea 
Therewith  for  corn-sowing, 
Ere  any  way  to  win  me  could  be  found  : 
For  I  am  going  to  shear  my  locks  all  round. 

He. 

Lady,  before  thou  shear  thy  locks 

I  hope  I  may  be  dead  : 
For  I  should  lose  such  joy  thereby 

And  gain  such  grief  instead. 
Merely  to  pass  and  look  at  thee. 
Rose  of  the  garden-bed. 
Has  comforted  me  much,  once  and  again. 
Oh  !  if  thou  wouldst  but  love,  what  were  it  then 


Giulio  d'  Alcamo.  I73 


She. 

Nay,  though  my  heart  were  prone  to  love, 

I  would  not  grant  it  leave. 
Hark  !  should  my  father  or  his  kin 

But  find  thee  here  this  eve, 
Thy  loving  body  and  lost  breath 
Our  moat  may  well  receive. 
Whatever  path  to  come  here  thou  dost  know, 
By  the  same  path  I  counsel  thee  to  go. 

He. 

And  if  thy  kinsfolk  find  me  here, 

Shall  I  be  drowned  then  ?     Marry, 
I  '11  set,  for  price  against  my  head, 

Two  thousand  agostari. 
I  think  thy  father  would  not  do  't 
For  all  his  lands  in  Bari. 
Long  life  to  the  Emperor  !     Be  God's  the  praise  ! 
Thou  hear'st,  my  beauty,  what  thy  servant  says 

She. 

And  am  I  then  to  have  no  peace 

Morning  or  evening.'* 
I  have  strong  coffers  of  my  own 
And  much  good  gold  therein  ; 
So  that  if  thou  couldst  offer  me 
The  wealth  of  Saladin, 
And  add  to  that  the  Soldan's  money-hoard, 
Thy  suit  would  not  be  anything  toward. 

He. 

I  have  known  many  women,  love, 

Whose  thoughts  were  high  and  proud. 
And  yet  have  been  made  gentle  by 

Man's  speech  not  over-loud. 
If  we  but  press  ye  long  enough, 
At  length  ye  will  be  bow'd  ; 
For  still  a  woman  's  weaker  than  a  man. 
When  the  end  comes,  recall  how  this  began. 

She. 

God  grant  that  I  may  die  before 

Any  such  end  do  come,  — 
Before  the  sight  of  a  chaste  maid 

Seem  to  me  troublesome  ! 


74  Giulio  d'  Alcamo. 


I  marked  thee  here  all  yestereve 
Lurking  about  my  home, 
And  now  I  say,  Leave  climbing,  lest  thou  fall, 
For  these  thy  words  delight  me  not  at  all. 

He. 

How  many  are  the  cunning  chains 

Thou  hast  wound  round  my  heart  ! 
Only  to  think  upon  thy  voice 

Sometimes  I  groan  apart. 
For  I  did  never  love  a  maid 
Of  this  world,  as  thou  art, 
So  much  as  I  love  thee,  thou  crimson  rose. 
Thou  wilt  be  mine  at  last  :  this  my  soul  knows. 

She. 

If  I  could  think  it  would  be  so, 

Small  pride  it  were  of  mine 
That  all  my  beauty  should  be  meant 

But  to  make  thee  to  shine. 
Sooner  than  stoop  to  that,  I  'd  shear 
These  golden  tresses  fine, 
And  make  one  of  some  holy  sisterhood; 
Escaping  so  thy  love,  which  is  not  good. 

He. 

If  thou  unto  the  cloister  fly, 
Thou  cruel  lady  and  cold, 
Unto  the  cloister  I  will  come 

And  by  the  cloister  hold  ; 
For  such  a  conquest  liketh  me 
Much  better  than  much  gold  ; 
At  matins  and  at  vespers  I  shall  be 
Still  where  thou  art.     Have  I  not  conquered  thee  ? 

She. 

Out  and  alack  !  wherefore  am  I 

Tormented  in  suchwise  ? 
Lord  Jesus  Christ  the  Saviour, 
In  whom  my  best  hope  lies, 
O  give  me  strength  that  I  may  hush 
This  vain  man's  blasphemies  ! 
Let  him  seek  through  the  earth  ;  't  is  long  and  broad 
He  will  find  fairer  damsels,  O  my  God  ! 


Giulio  d^  Alcamo.  175 


He. 

I  have  sought  through  Calabria, 

Lombardy,  and  Tuscany, 
Rome,  Pisa,  Lucca,  Genoa, 
Ali  between  sea  and  sea  : 
Yea,  even  to  Babylon  I  went 
And  distant  Barbary  : 
But  not  a  woman  found  I  anywhere 
Equal  to  thee,  who  art  indeed  most  fair. 

She. 

If  thou  have  all  this  love  for  me, 

Thou  canst  no  better  do 
Than  ask  me  of  my  father  dear 

And  my  dear  mother  too  : 
They  willing,  to  the  abbey-church 
We  will  together  go, 
And,  before  Advent,  thou  and  I  will  wed  ; 
After  the  which,  I  '11  do  as  thou  hast  said. 

He. 

These  thy  conditions,  lady  mine. 

Are  altogether  nought  : 
Despite  of  them,  I  '11  make  a  net 
Wherein  thou  shalt  be  caught. 
What,  wilt  thou  put  on  wings  to  fly  ? 
Nay,  but  of  wax  they  're  wrought,  — 
They  '11  let  thee  fall  to  earth,  not  rise  with  thee 
So,  if  thou  canst,  then  keep  thyself  from  me. 

She. 

Think  not  to  fright  me  with  thy  nets 

And  suchlike  childish  gear  ; 
I  am  safe  pent  within  the  walls 

Of  this  strong  castle  here  ; 
A  boy  before  he  is  a  man 
Could  give  me  as  much  fear. 
If  suddenly  thou  get  not  hence  again, 
It  is  my  prayer  thou  mayst  be  found  and  slain. 

He. 

Wouldst  thou  in  very  truth  that  I 

Were  slain,  and  for  thy  sake  Ì 
Then  let  them  hew  me  to  such  mince 

As  a  man's  limbs  may  make  ! 


176  Ciidlo  d'  Alcamo. 


But  meanwhile  I  shall  not  stir  hence 
Till  of  that  fruit  I  take 
Which  thou  hast  in  thy  garden,  ripe  enough  : 
All  day  and  night  I  thirst  to  think  thereof. 

She. 

None  have  partaken  of  that  fruit, 

Not  Counts  nor  Cavaliers  : 
Though  many  have  reached  up  for  it, 

Barons  and  great  Seigneurs, 
They  all  went  hence  in  wrath  because 
They  could  not  make  it  theirs. 
Then  how  canst  thoti  think  to  succeed  alone 
Who  hast  not  a  thousand  ounces  of  thine  own  ? 


He. 

How  many  nosegays  I  have  sent 

Unto  thy  house,  sweet  soul! 
At  least  till  I  am  put  to  proof. 
This  scorn  of  thine  control. 
For  if  the  wind,  so  fair  for  thee, 
Turn  ever  and  wax  foul, 
Be  sure  that  thou  shalt  say  when  all  is  done, 
"  Now  is  my  heart  heavy  for  him  that 's  gone." 

She. 

If  by  my  grief  thou  couldst  be  grieved, 

God  send  me  a  grief  soon  ! 
I  tell  thee  that  though  all  my  friends 

Prayed  me  as  for  a  boon, 
Saying,  "  Even  for  the  love  of  us, 
Love  thou  this  worthless  loon," 
Thou  shouldst  not  have  the  thing  that  thou  dost  hope. 
No,  verily  ;  not  for  the  realm  o'  the  Pope. 

He. 

Now  could  I  wish  that  I  in  truth 
Were  dead  here  in  thy  house  : 
My  soul  would  get  its  vengeance  then  ; 

Once  known,  the  thing  would  rouse 
A  rabble,  and  they  'd  point  and  say,  — 
"  Lo  !  she  that  breaks  her  vows, 
And,  in  her  dainty  chamber,  stabs  !  "    Love,  see  : 
One  strikes  just  thus  :  it  is  soon  done,  pardie  ! 


Ciullo  d'  Alcamo.  177 


She. 

If  now  thou  do  not  hasten  hence 

(My  curse  companioning), 
That  my  stout  friends  will  find  thee  here 

Is  a  most  certain  thing  : 
After  the  which,  my  gallant  sir 
Thy  points  of  reasoning 
May  chance,  I  think,  to  stand  thee  in  small  stead. 
Thou  hast  no  friend,  sweet  friend,  to  bring  thee  aid. 

He. 

Thou  sayest  truly,  saying  that 

I  have  not  any  friend  : 
A  landless  stranger,  lady  mine, 

None  but  his  sword  defend. 
One  year  ago,  my  love  began, 
And  now,  is  this  the  end? 
Oh  !  the  rich  dress  thou  worest  on  that  day 
Since  when  thou  art  walking  at  my  side  alway  ! 

She. 

So  't  was  my  dress  enamoured  thee  ! 

What  marvel  ?     I  did  wear 
A  cloth  of  samite  silver-flowered, 

And  gems  within  my  hair. 
But  one  more  word;  if  on  Christ's  Book 
To  wed  me  thou  didst  swear, 
There  's  nothing  now  could  win  me  to  be  thine  : 
I  had  rather  make  my  bed  in  the  sea-brine. 

He. 

And  if  thou  make  thy  bed  therein. 
Most  courteous  lady  and  bland, 
I  '11  follow  all  among  the  waves, 
Paddling  with  foot  and  hand  ; 
Then,  when  the  sea  hath  done  with  thee, 
I  '11  seek  thee  on  the  sand. 
For  I  will  not  be  conquered  in  this  strife  : 
I  '11  wait,  but  win  ;  or  losing,  lose  my  life. 

She. 


For  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost, 
Three  times  I  cross  myself. 

Thou  art  no  godless  heretic, 

Nor  Jew,  whose  God  's  his  pelf  : 


78  Ciullo  cf  Alcamo. 


Even  as  I  know  it  then,  meseems, 
Thou  needs  must  know  thyself 
That  woman,  when  the  breath  in  her  doth  cease, 
Loseth  all  savor  and  all  loveliness. 

He. 

Woe  's  me  !     Perforce  it  must  be  said 

No  craft  could  then  avail  : 
So  that  if  thou  be  thus  resolved, 

I  know  my  suit  must  fail. 
Then  have  some  pity,  of  thy  grace  ! 
Thou  mayst,  love,  very  well  ; 
For  though  thou  love  not  me,  my  love  is  such 
That  't  is  enough  for  both  —  yea  overmuch. 

She. 

Is  it  even  so  ì     Learn  then  that  I 

Do  love  thee  from  my  heart. 
To-morrow,  early  in  the  day, 

Come  here,  but  now  depart. 
By  thine  obedience  in  this  thing 
I  shall  know  what  thou  art, 
And  if  thy  love  be  real  or  nothing  worth  : 
Do  but  go  now,  and  I  am  thine  henceforth. 

He. 

Nay,  for  such  promise,  my  own  life, 

I  will  not  stir  a  foot. 
l 've  said,  if  thou  wouldst  tear  away 

My  love  even  from  its  root, 
I  have  a  dagger  at  my  side 

Which  thou  mayst  take  to  do  't  : 
But  as  for  going  hence,  it  will  not  be. 
O  hate  me  not  !  my  heart  is  burning  me. 

She. 

Think'st  thou  I  know  not  that  thy  heart 

Is  hot  and  burns  to  death.? 
Of  all  that  thou  or  I  can  say. 

But  one  word  succoreth. 
Till  thou  upon  the  Holy  Book 
Give  me  thy  bounden  faith, 
God  is  my  witness  that  I  will  not  yield  : 
For  with  thy  sword  "t  were  better  to  be  kill'd. 


Giulio  d'  Alcamo.  179 


He. 

Then  on  Christ's  Book,  borne  with  me  still 

To  read  from  and  to  pray, 
(I  took  it,  fairest,  in  a  church 

The  priest  being  gone  away), 
I  swear  that  my  whole  self  shall  be 
Thine  always  from  this  day. 
And  now  at  once  give  joy  for  all  my  grief, 
Lest  my  soul  fly,  that 's  thinner  than  a  leaf. 

She. 

Now  that  this  oath  is  sworn,  sweet  lord. 

There  is  no  need  to  speak  : 
My  heart,  that  was  so  strong  before. 

Now  feels  itself  grow  weak. 
If  any  of  my  words  were  harsh. 
Thy  pardon  :   I  am  meek 
Now,  and  will  give  thee  entrance  presently. 
It  is  best  so,  sith  so  it  was  to  be. 


i8o  Folcachiero  de  Folcachieri. 


FOLCACHIERO    DE'   FOLCACHIERI, 
KNIGHT   OF   SIENA. 


Canzone. 

He  speaks  of  his  Condition  through  Love. 

All  the  whole  world  is  living  without  war, 
And  yet  I  cannot  find  out  any  peace. 

0  God  !  that  this  should  be  ! 

0  God!  what  does  the  earth  sustain  me  for? 
My  life  seems  made  for  other  lives'  ill-ease  : 

All  men  look  strange  to  me  ; 
Nor  are  the  wood-flowers  now 
As  once,  when  up  above 
The  happy  birds  in  love 
Made  such  sweet  verses,  going  from  bough  to  bough. 

And  if  I  come  where  other  gentlemen 

Bear  arms,  or  say  of  love  some  joyful  thing  — 
Then  is  my  grief  most  sore, 
And  all  my  soul  turns  round  upon  me  then  : 
Folk  also  gaze  upon  me,  whispering. 

Because  I  am  not  what  I  was  before. 

1  know  not  what  I  am. 
I  know  how  wearisome 
My  life  is  now  become, 

And  that  the  days  I  pass  seem  all  the  same. 

1  think  that  I  shall  die  ;  yea,  death  begins  ; 
Though  't  is  no  set-down  sickness  that  I  have, 

Nor  are  my  pains  set  down. 

But  to  wear  raiment  seems  a  burden  since 

This  came,  nor  ever  any  food  I  crave  ; 

Not  any  cure  is  known 

To  me,  nor  unto  whom 

I  might  commend  my  case  : 

This  evil  therefore  stays 
Still  where  it  is,  and  hope  can  find  no  room. 


Folcaci liero  de   Folcacìiieri.  i8i 

I  know  that  it  must  certainly  be  Love  : 
No  other  Lord,  being  thus  set  over  me, 

Had  judged  me  to  this  curse  ; 
With  such  high  hand  he  rules,  sitting  above, 
That  of  myself  he  takes  two  parts  in  fee, 

Only  the  third  being  hers. 

Yet  if  through  service  I 

Be  justified  with  God, 

He  shall  remove  this  load, 
Because  my  heart  with  inmost  love  doth  sigh. 

Gentle  my  lady,  after  I  am  gone, 

There  will  not  come  another,  it  may  be, 

To  show  thee  love  like  mine  : 
For  nothing  can  I  do,  neither  have  done, 
Except  what  proves  that  I  belong  to  thee 

And  am  a  thing  of  thine. 

Be  it  not  said  that  I 

Despaired  and  perished,  then  ; 

But  pour  thy  grace,  like  rain. 
On  him  who  is  burned  up,  yea,  visibly. 


1 82  Lodovico  della  Vernaccia. 


LODOVICO  DELLA  VERNACCIA. 

Sonnet. 
He  exhorts  the  State  to  vigilance. 

Think  a  brief  while  on  the  most  marvellous  arts 

Of  our  high-purposed  labor,  citizens  ; 

And  having  thought,  draw  clear  conclusion  thence 
And  say,  do  not  ours  seem  but  childish  parts  ? 
Also  on  these  intestine  sores  and  smarts 

Ponder  advisedly  ;  and  the  deep  sense 

Thereof  shall  bow  your  heads  in  penitence, 
And  like  a  thorn  shall  grow  into  your  hearts. 
If,  of  our  foreign  foes,  some  prince  or  lord 

Is  now,  perchance,  some  whit  less  troublesome, 
Shall  the  sword  therefore  drop  into  the  sheath  ? 
Nay,  grasp  it  as  the  friend  that  warranteth  : 

For  unto  this  vile  rout,  our  foes  at  home, 
Nothing  is  high  or  awful  save  the  sword. 


Saint  Francis  of  Assisi.  183 


SAINT   FRANCIS   OF   ASSISI. 

Cantica. 

Our  Lord  Christ  :  of  Order} 

Set  Love  in  order,  thou  that  lovest  Me. 
Never  was  virtue  out  of  order  found  ; 
And  though  I  fill  thy  heart  desirously, 

By  thine  own  virtue  I  must  keep  My  ground: 
When  to  My  love  thou  dost  bring  charity, 

Even  she  must  come  with  order  girt  and  gown'd. 
Look  how  the  trees  are  bound 
To  order,  bearing  fruit  ; 
And  by  one  thing  compute. 
In  all  things  earthly,  order's  grace  or  gain. 

All  earthly  things  I  had  the  making  of 

Were  numbered  and  were  measured  then  by  Me  ; 
And  each  was  ordered  to  its  end  by  Love, 

Each  kept,  through  order,  clean  for  ministry. 
Charity  most  of  all,  when  known  enough, 
Is  of  her  very  nature  orderly. 
Lo,  now  !  what  heat  in  thee, 
Soul,  can  have  bred  this  rout  ? 
Thou  putt'st  all  order  out. 
Even  this  love's  heat  must  be  its  curb  and  rein. 

1  This  speech  occurs  in  a  long  poem  on  Divine  Love,  half  ecstatic,  half  scholastic, 
and  hardly  appreciable  now.  The  passage  stands  well  by  itself,  and  is  the  only  one 
spoken  by  our  Lord. 


184  Frederick  IL 


FREDERICK   IL     EMPEROR. 

Canzone. 
Of  his  Lady  in  bondage. 

For  grief  I  am  about  to  sing, 
Even  as  another  would  for  joy  ; 
Mine  eyes  which  the  hot  tears  destroy 

Are  scarce  enough  for  sorrowing  : 

To  speak  of  such  a  grievous  thing 
Also  my  tongue  I  must  employ, 

Saying  :  Woe  's  me,  who  am  full  of  woes  ! 
Not  while  I  live  shall  my  sighs  cease 
For  her  in  whom  my  heart  found  peace  : 

I  am  become  like  unto  those 

That  cannot  sleep  for  weariness, 

Now  I  have  lost  my  crimson  rose. 

And  yet  I  will  not  call  her  lost  ; 

She  is  not  gone  out  of  the  earth  ; 

She  is  but  girded  with  a  girth 
Of  hate,  that  clips  her  in  like  frost. 
Thus  says  she  every  hour  almost  :  — 

"  When  I  was  born,  't  was  an  ill  birth  ! 
O  that  I  never  had  been  born. 

If  I  am  still  to  fall  asleep 

Weeping,  and  when  I  wake  to  weep; 
If  he  whom  I  must  loathe  and  scorn 

Is  still  to  have  me  his,  and  keep 
Smiling  about  me  night  and  morn  ! 

"  O  that  I  never  had  been  born 
A  woman  !  a  poor,  helpless  fool, 
Who  can  but  stoop  beneath  the  rule 

Of  him  she  needs  must  loathe  and  scorn  ! 

If  ever  I  feel  less  forlorn, 

I  stand  all  day  in  fear  and  dule, 


Frederick  IL  185 


Lest  he  discern  it,  and  with  rough 
Speech  mock  at  me,  or  with  his  smile 
So  hard  you  scarce  could  call  it  guile  : 

No  man  is  there  to  say,  '  Enough.' 
O,  but  if  God  waits  a  long  while, 

Death  cannot  always  stand  aloof  ! 

"  Thou,  God  the  Lord,  dost  know  all  this  : 

Give  me  a  little  comfort  then. 

Him  who  is  worst  among  bad  men 
Smite  thou  for  me.     Those  limbs  of  his 
Once  hidden  where  the  sharp  worm  is, 

Perhaps  I  might  see  hope  again. 
Yet  for  a  certain  period 

Would  I  seem  like  as  one  that  saith 

Strange  things  for  grief,  and  murmureth 
With  smitten  palms  and  hair  abroad  : 

Still  whispering  under  my  held  breath, 
'  Shall  I  not  praise  Thy  name,  O  God  ?  ' 

"  Thou,  God  the  Lord,  dost  know  all  this  : 
It  is  a  very  weary  thing 
Thus  to  be  always  trembling  : 

And  till  the  breath  of  his  life  cease, 

The  hate  in  him  will  but  increase, 
And  with  his  hate  my  suffering. 

Each  morn  I  hear  his  voice  bid  them 
That  watch  me,  to  be  faithful  spies 
Lest  I  go  forth  and  see  the  skies  ; 

Each  night,  to  each,  he  saith  the  same  :  — 
And  in  my  soul  and  in  mine  eyes 

There  is  a  burning  heat  like  flame." 

Thus  grieves  she  now  :  but  she  shall  wear 
This  love  of  mine,  whereof  I  spoke, 
About  her  body  for  a  cloak. 
And  for  a  garland  in  her  hair. 
Even  yet  :  because  I  mean  to  prove, 
Not  to  speak  only,  this  my  love. 


1 86  Enzo,  King  of  Saj'dinia. 


ENZO,    KING   OF   SARDINIA. 

Sonnet. 
On  the  Fitness  of  Seasons. 

There  is  a  time  to  mount  ;  to  humble  thee 

A  time  ;  a  time  to  talk,  and  hold  thy  peace  ; 

A  time  to  labor,  and  a  time  to  cease  ; 
A  time  to  take  thy  measures  patiently  ; 
A  time  to  watch  what  Time's  next  step  may  be  ; 

A  time  to  make  light  count  of  menaces, 

And  to  think  over  them  a  time  there  is  ; 
There  is  a  time  when  to  seem  not  to  see. 
Wherefore  I  hold  him  well-advised  and  sage 

Who  evermore  keeps  prudence  facing  him, 
And  lets  his  life  slide  with  occasion  ; 
And  so  comports  himself,  through  youth  to  age, 

That  never  any  man  at  any  time 

Can  say,  Not  thus,  but  thus  thou  shouldst  have  done. 


Guido  Guinicelli.  187 


GUIDO   GUINICELLI. 


I. 

Sonnet. 
Concerning  Lucy. 

When  Lucy  draws  her  mantle  round  her  face, 
So  sweeter  than  all  else  she  is  to  see, 
That  hence  unto  the  hills  there  lives  not  he 

Whose  whole  soul  would  not  love  her  for  her  grace. 

Then  seems  she  like  a  daughter  of  some  race 
That  holds  high  rule  in  France  or  Germany  : 
And  a  snake's  head  stricken  off  suddenly 

Throbs  never  as  then  throbs  my  heart  to  embrace 

Her  body  in  these  arms,  even  were  she  loath  ;  — 
To  kiss  her  lips,  to  kiss  her  cheeks,  to  kiss 
The  lids  of  her  two  eyes  which  are  two  flames. 
Yet  what  my  heart  so  longs  for,  my  heart  blames 
For  surely  sorrow  might  be  bred  from  this 

Where  some  man's  patient  love  abides  its  growth. 


II. 
Canzone.    ^Dam^u^:  <>yM^«u. 
Of  the  Gentle  Heart. 

Within  the  gentle  heart  Love  shelters  him, 

As  birds  within  the  green  shade  of  the  grove. 
Before  the  gentle  heart,  in  nature's  scheme. 
Love  was  not,  nor  the  gentle  heart  ere  Love. 

For  with  the  sun,  at  once, 
So  sprang  the  light  immediately  ;  nor  was 

Its  birth  before  the  sun's. 
And  Love  hath  his  effect  in  gentleness 

Of  very  self  ;  even  as 
Within  the  middle  fire  the  heat's  excess. 


1 88  Guido  Guinicelli. 


The  fire  of  Love  comes  to  the  gentle  heart 

Like  as  its  virtue  to  a  precious  stone  ; 
To  which  no  star  its  influence  can  impart 
Till  it  is  made  a  pure  thing  by  the  sun  : 

For  when  the  sun  hath  smit 
From  out  its  essence  that  which  there  was  vile, 

The  star  endoweth  it. 
And  so  the  heart  created  by  God's  breath 

Pure,  true,  and  clean  from  guile, 
A  woman,  like  a  star,  enamoureth. 

In  gentle  heart  Love  for  like  reason  is 

For  which  the  lamp's  high  flame  is  fanned  and  bow'd  : 
Clear,  piercing  bright,  it  shines  for  its  own  bliss  ; 
Nor  would  it  burn  there  else,  it  is  so  proud. 

For  evil  natures  meet 
With  Love  as  it  were  water  met  with  fire, 

As  cold  abhorring  heat. 
Through  gentle  heart  Love  doth  a  track  divine, — 

Like  knowing  like  ;  the  same 
As  diamond  runs  through  iron  in  the  mine. 

The  sun  strikes  full  upon  the  mud  all  day  : 

It  remains  vile,  nor  the  sun's  worth  is  less. 
"  By  race  I  am  gentle,"  the  proud  man  doth  say  : 
He  is  the  mud,  the  sun  is  gentleness. 
Let  no  man  predicate 
That  aught  the  name  of  gentleness  shonid  hpvg,    . 

Jilyen  in  a  king's  estate^ 
Except  the  heart  there  bé~Tgentle  man's. 

The  star-beam  lights  the  wave, — 
Heaven  holds  the  star  and  the  star's  radiance. 

God,  in  the  understanding  of  high  Heaven, 
Burns  more  than  in  our  sight  the  living  sun  : 

There  to  behold  His  Face  unveiled  is  given  ; 
And  Heaven,  whose  will  is  homage  paid  to  One, 
Fulfils  the  things  which  live 

[In  God,  from  the  beginning  excellent. 
So  should  my  lady  give 
That  truth  which  in  her  eyes  is  glorified, 
On  which  her  heart  is  bent, 
Jo  me  whose  service  waiteth  at  her  side. 


>J^. 


f^ 


My  lady,  God  shall  ask,  "  What  daredst  thou  ? 

(When  my  soul  stands  with  all  her  acts  review'd  ;) 
"Thou  passedst  Heaven,  into  My  sight,  as  now, 

To  make  Me  of  vain  love  similitude. 


Guido  Guinicelli.  189 


To  me  doth  praise  belong, 
And  to  the  Queen  of  all  the  realm  of  grace 

Who  slayeth  fraud  and  wrong." 
Then  may  I  plead  :  "  As  though  from  Thee  he  came, 


Love  wore  an  angePs  face  :->   CZ>a-o#^  ^   ^j»-v\jtJ^(LU  àjL 

9  l-iìJUIuU^kjLA 


Lord,  if  I  loved  her,  count  it  not  my  shame."    .jok* 


in. 

Sonnet. 
He  will  praise  his  Lady. 

Yea,  let  me  praise  my  lady  whom  I  love, 

Likening  her  unto  the  lily  and  rose  : 

Brighter  than  morning  star  her  visage  glows  ; 
She  is  beneath  even  as  her  Saint  above  ; 
She  is  as  the  air  in  summer  which  God  wove 

Of  purple  and  of  vermilion  glorious  ; 

As  gold  and  jewels  richer  than  man  knows. 
Love's  self,  being  love  for  her,  must  holier  prove. 
Ever  as  she  walks  she  hath  a  sober  grace, 

Making  bold  men  abashed  and  good  men  glad  ; 

If  she  delight  thee  not,  thy  heart  must  err. 

No  man  dare  look  on  her,  his  thoughts  being  base  : 

Nay,  let  me  say  even  more  than  I  have  said  ;  — 

No  man  could  think  base  thoughts  who  looked  on  her. 


IV. 

Canzone. 

He  perceives  his  Rashness  in  Love^  but  has  no  choice.    ■ 

I  HOLD  him,  verily,  of  mean  emprise. 

Whose  rashness  tempts  a  strength  too  great  to  bear  ; 
As  I  have  done,  alas  !  who  turned  mine  eyes 
Upon  those  perilous  eyes  of  the  most  fair. 

Unto  her  eyes  I  bow'd  ; 
No  need  her  other  beauties  in  that  hour 

Should  aid  them,  cold  and  proud  : 
As  when  the  vassals  of  a  mighty  lord, 

What  time  he  needs  his  power, 
Are  all  girt  round  him  to  make  strong  his  sword. 

With  such  exceeding  force  the  stroke  was  dealt 
That  by  mine  eyes  its  path  might  not  be  stay'd  ; 

But  deep  into  the  heart  it  pierced,  which  felt 

The  pang  of  the  sharp  wound,  and  waxed  afraid  : 


IQO  Guido  Gumicelli, 


Then  rested  in  strange  wise, 
As  when  some  creature  utterly  outworn 

Sinks  into  bed  and  lies. 
And  she  the  while  doth  in  no  manner  care, 

But  goes  her  way  in  scorn, 
Beholding  herself  alway  proud  and  fair. 

And  she  may  be  as  proud  as  she  shall  please, 

For  she  is  still  the  fairest  woman  found  : 
A  sun  she  seems  among  the  rest  ;  and  these 
Have  all  their  beauties  in  her  splendor  drown'd. 
In  her  is  every  gi'ace,  — 
Simplicity  of  wisdom,  noble  speech. 

Accomplished  loveliness  ; 
All  earthly  beauty  is  her  diadem, 

This  truth  my  song  would  teach,  — 
My  lady  is  of  ladies  chosen  gem. 

Love  to  my  lady's  service  yieldeth  me,  — 
Will  I,  or  will  I  not,  the  thing  is  so,  — 
Nor  other  reason  can  I  say  or  see, 

Except  that  where  it  lists  the  wind  doth  blow. 

He  rules  and  gives  no  sign  ; 
Nor  once  from  her  did  show  of  love  upbuoy 

This  passion  which  is  mine. 
It  is  because  her  virtue's  strength  and  stir 

So  fill  her  full  of  joy 
That  I  am  glad  to  die  for  love  of  her. 


V. 
Sonnet. 
-r  V  Of  Moderation  and  Tolerance. 

He  that  has  grown  to  wisdom  hurries  not, 

But  thinks  and  weighs  what  Reason  bids  him  do  ; 
And  after  thinking  he  retains  his  thought 

Until  as  he  conceived  the  fact  ensue. 
Let  no  man  to  o'erweening  pride  be  wrought, 

But  count  his  state  as  Fortune's  gift  and  due. 
He  is  a  fool  who  deems  that  none  has  sought 

The  truth,  save  he  alone,  or  knows  it  true. 
Many  strange  birds  are  on  the  air  abroad. 

Nor  all  are  of  one  flight  or  of  one  force. 

But  each  after  his  kind  dissimilar  : 

To  each  was  portioned  of  the  breath  of  God, 

Who  gave  them  divers  instincts  from  one  source. 
Then  judge  not  thou  thy  fellows  what  they  are. 


Guido  Guinicelli.  191 


VI. 

Sonnet. 
Of  Human  Presumption. 

Among  my  thoughts  I  count  it  wonderful, 
How  foolishness  in  man  should  be  so  rife 
That  masterly  he  takes  the  world  to  wife 

As  though  no  end  were  set  unto  his  rule  : 

In  labor  alway  that  his  ease  be  full, 
As  though  there  never  were  another  life  ; 
Till  Death  throws  all  his  order  into  strife, 

And  round  his  head  his  purposes  doth  pull. 

And  evermore  one  sees  the  other  die, 

And  sees  how  all  conditions  turn  to  change, 

Yet  in  no  wise  may  the  blind  wretch  be  heal'd. 
I  therefore  say,  that  sin  can  even  estrange 

Man's  very  sight,  and  his  heart  satisfy 

To  live  as  lives  a  sheep  upon  the  field. 


192  Guerzo  di  Montecaitti. 


GUERZO   DI   MONTECANTI. 

Sonnet. 
He  is  out  of  heart  with  his  Time. 

If  any  man  would  know  the  very  cause 

Which  makes  me  to  forget  my  speech  in  rhyme. 
All  the  sweet  songs  I  sang  in  other  time,  — 

I  '11  tell  it  in  a  sonnet's  simple  clause. 

I  hourly  have  beheld  how  good  withdraws 
To  nothing,  and  how  evil  mounts  the  while  : 
Until  my  heart  is  gnawed  as  with  a  file. 

Nor  aught  of  this  world's  worth  is  what  it  was. 

At  last  there  is  no  other  remedy 
But  to  behold  the  universal  end  ; 

And  so  upon  this  hope  my  thoughts  are  urged 

To  whom,  since  truth  is  sunk  and  dead  at  sea. 
There  has  no  other  part  or  prayer  remain'd, 
Except  of  seeing  the  world's  self  submerged. 


Inghilfredi,  Siciliano.  193 


INGHILFREDI,   SICILIANO. 

Canzone. 

He  rebukes  the  Evil  of  that  Time. 

Hard  is  it  for  a  man  to  please  all  men  : 
I  therefore  speak  in  doubt. 

And  as  one  may  that  looketh  to  be  chid. 
But  who  can  hold  his  peace  in  these  days  .'*  —  when 
Guilt  cunningly  slips  out, 

And  Innocence  atones  for  what  he  did  ; 

When  worth  is  crushed,  even  if  it  be  not  hid  ; 
When  on  crushed  worth,  guile  sets  his  foot  to  rise; 
And  when  the  things  wise  men  have  counted  wise 

Make  fools  to  smile  and  stare  and  lift  the  lid. 

Let  none  who  have  not  wisdom  govern  you  : 
For  he  that  was  a  fool 

At  first  shall  scarce  grow  wise  under  the  sun. 
And  as  it  is,  my  whole  heart  bleeds  anew 
To  think  how  hard  a  school 

Young  hope  grows  old  at.  as  these  seasons  run. 

Behold,  sirs,  we  have  reached  this  thing  for  one  :  — 
The  lord  before  his  servant  bends  the  knee, 
And  service  puts  on  lordship  suddenly. 

Ye  speak  o'  the  end  ì     Ye  have  not  yet  begun. 

I  would  not  have  ye  without  counsel  ta'en 
Follow  my  words  ;  nor  meant, 

If  one  should  talk  and  act  not,  to  praise  him. 
But  who,  being  much  opposed,  speaks  not  again, 
Confesseth  himself  shent 

And  put  to  silence,  —  by  some  loud-mouthed  mime, 
Perchance,  for  whom  I  speak  not  in  this  rhyme. 
Strive  what  ye  can  ;  and  if  ye  cannot  all, 
Yet  should  not  your  hearts  fall  : 

The  fruit  commends  the  flower  in  God's  good  time. 


194  Inghilfredi,  Siciliano. 

(For  without  fruit  the  flower  delights  not  God  :  ) 
Wherefore  let  him  whom  Hope 

Puts  off,  remember  time  is  not  gone  by. 
Let  him  say  calmly  :  "  Thus  far  on  this  .road 
A  foolish  trust  buoyed  up 

My  soul,  and  made  it  like  the  summer  fly 

Burned  in  the  flame  it  seeks  :  even  so  was  I  : 
But  now  I  '11  aid  myself  :  for  still  this  trust, 
I  find,  falleth  to  dust  : 

The  fish  gapes  for  the  bait-hook,  and  doth  die.' 

And  yet  myself,  who  bid  ye  do  this  thing,  — 
Am  I  not  also  spurn'd 

By  the  proud  feet  of  Hope  continually  ; 
Till  that  which  gave  me  such  good  comforting 
Is  altogether  turn'd 
Unto  a  fire  whose  heat  consumeth  me  ? 

I  am  so  girt  with  grief  that  my  thoughts  be 
Tired  of  themselves,  and  from  my  soul  I  loathe 
Silence  and  converse  both  ; 

And  my  own  face  is  what  I  hate  to  see. 

Because  no  act  is  meet  now  nor  unmeet. 

He  that  does  evil,  men  applaud  his  name, 
And  the  well-doer  must  put  up  with  shame  : 

Yea,  and  the  worst  man  sits  in  the  best  seat. 


Rinaldo  d*  Aquino.  195 


RINALDO   D'   AQUINO. 

I. 

Canzone, 

He  is  resolved  to  be  joyful  in  Love. 

A  THING  is  in  my  mind,  — 
To  have  my  joy  again, 
Which  I  had  almost  put  away  from  me. 
It  were  in  foolish  kind 
For  ever  to  refrain 
From  song,  and  renounce  gladness  utterly. 
Seeing  that  I  am  given  into  the  rule 

Of  Love,  whom  only  pleasure  makes  alive, 

Whom  pleasure  nourishes  and  brings  to  growth  : 

The  wherefore  sullen  sloth 
Will  he  not  suffer  in  those  serving  him  ; 
But  pleasant  they  must  seem, 
That  good  folk  love  them  and  their  service  thrive  ; 
Nor  even  their  pain  must  make  them  sorrowful. 

So  bear  he  him  that  thence 

The  praise  of  men  be  gain'd,  — 
He  that  would  put  his  hope  in  noble  Love  ; 
For  by  great  excellence 
Alone  can  be  attain'd 
That  amorous  joy  which  wisdom  may  approve. 
The  way  of  Love  is  this,  righteous  and  just  ; 
Then  whoso  would  be  held  of  good  account, 
To  seek  the  way  of  Love  must  him  befit,  — 

Pleasure,  to  wit. 
Through  pleasure,  man  attains  his  worthiness  : 
For  he  must  please 
All  men,  so  bearing  him  that  Love  may  mount 
In  their  esteem  ;  Love's  self  being  in  his  trust. 


196  Rinaldo  cV  Aquino. 

Trustful  in  servitude 
I  have  been  and  will  be, 
And  loyal  unto  Love  my  whole  life  through. 
A  hundred-fold  of  good 
Hath  he  not  guerdoned  me 
For  what  I  have  endured  of  grief  and  woe 
Since  he  hath  given  me  unto  one  of  whom 

Thus  much  he  said,  —  thou  mightest  seek  for  aye 
Another  of  such  worth,  so  beauteous. 
)<~  Joy  therefore  may  keep  house 

^  In  this  my  heart,  that  it  hath  loved  so  well. 

\X  f  Meseems  I  scarce  could  dwell 

^        «"^  Ever  in  weary  life  or  in  dismay 

r\  If  to  true  service  still  my  heart  gave  room. 

Serving  at  her  pleasànce 
Whose  service  pleasureth, 
I  am  enriched  with  all  the  wealth  of  Love. 
Song  hath  no  utterance 
For  my  life's  joyful  breath 
Since  in  this  lady's  grace  my  homage  throve. 
Yea,  for  I  think  it  would  be  difficult 

One  should  conceive  my  former  abject  case  :  — 
Therefore  have  knowledge  of  me  from  this  rhyme 

My  penance-time 
Is  all  accomplished  now,  and  all  forgot, 
So  that  no  jot 
Do  I  remember  of  mine  evil  days. 
It  is  my  lady's  will  that  I  exult. 

Exulting  let  me  take 

My  joyful  comfort,  then, 
Seeing  myself  in  so  much  blessedness. 
Mine  ease  even  as  mine  ache 
Accepting,  let  me  gain 
No  pride  towards  Love  ;  but  with  all  humbleness, 
Even  still,  my  pleasurable  service  pay. 
For  a  good  servant  ne'er  was  left  to  pine  : 
Great  shall  his  guerdon  be  who  greatly  bears. 

But,  because  he  that  fears 
To  speak  too  much,  by  his  own  silence  shent, 
Hath  sometimes  made  lament,  — 
I  am  thus  boastful,  lady;  being  thine 
For  homage  and  obedience  night  and  day. 


Rinaldo  d'  Aquino.  197 

II. 

Canzone. 

A  Lady,  in  Spring,  repents  of  her  Coldness. 

Now,  when  it  flowereth, 

And  when  the  banks  and  fields 
Are  greener  every  day, 
And  sweet  is  each  bird's  breath, 
In  the  tree  where  he  builds 
Singing  after  his  way,  — 
Spring  comes  to  us  with  hasty  step  and  brief. 

Everywhere  in  leaf. 
And  everywhere  makes  people  laugh  and  play. 

Love  is  brought  unto  me 
In  the  scent  of  the  flower 
And  in  the  bird's  blithe  noise 
When  day  begins  to  be, 
I  hear  in  every  bower 

New  verses  finding  voice  : 
From  every  branch  around  me  and  above, 

A  minstrels'  court  of  love, 
The  birds  contend  in  song  about  love's  joys. 

What  time  I  hear  the  lark 
And  nightingale  keep  Spring, 
My  heart  will  pant  and  yearn 
For  love.     (Ye  all  may  mark 
The  unkindly  comforting 
Of  fire  that  will  not  burn.) 
And,  being  in  the  shadow  of  the  fresh  wood, 

How  excellently  good 
A  thing  love  is,  I  cannot  choose  but  learn. 

Let  me  ask  grace  ;  for  I, 

Being  loved,  loved  not  again. 
Now  springtime  makes  me  love, 
And  bids  me  satisfy 

The  lover  whose  fierce  pain 
I  thought  too  lightly  of  : 
For  that  the  pain  is  fierce  I  do  feel  now. 

And  yet  this  pride  is  slow 
To  free  my  heart,  which  pity  would  fain  move. 


198  Rinaldo  (T  Aqumo. 

Wherefore  I  pray  thee,  Love, 
That  thy  breath  turn  me  o'er, 
Even  as  the  wind  a  leaf; 
And  I  will  set  thee  above 

This  heart  of  mine,  that's  sore 

Perplexed,  to  be  its  chief. 

Let  also  the  dear  youth,  whose  passion  must 

Henceforward  have  good  trust, 
Be  happy  without  words  ;  for  words  bring  grief. 


yacopo  da  Leutino.  199 


JACOPO   DA   LENTINO. 


Sonnet. 
Of  his  Lady  in  Heaven. 

I  HAVE  it  in  my  heart  to  serve  God  so 
That  into  Paradise  I  shall  repair,  — 
The  holy  place  though  the  which  everywhere 

I  have  heard  say  that  joy  and  solace  flow. 

Without  my  lady  I  were  loath  to  go,  — 

She  who  has  the  bright  face  and  the  bright  hair  ; 
Because  if  she  were  absent,  I  being  there, 

My  pleasure  would  be  less  than  nought,  I  know. 

Look  you,  I  say  not  this  to  such  intent 
As  that  I  there  would  deal  in  any  sin  : 
I  only  would  behold  her  gracious  mien, 
And  beautiful  soft  eyes,  and  lovely  face. 

That  so  it  should  be  my  complete  content 
To  see  my  lady  joyful  in  her  place. 


II. 

Canzonetta. 

Of  his  Lady^  and  of  her  Portrait. 

Marvellously  elate. 

Love  makes  my  spirit  warm 
With  noble  sympathies  : 
As  one  whose  mind  is  set 
Upon  some  glorious  form, 
To  paint  it  as  it  is  ;  — 
I  verily  who  bear 
Thy  face  at  heart,  most  fair, 
Am  like  to  him  in  this. 


200  Jacopo  da  Lentiìw. 

Not  outwardly  declared, 
Within  me  dwells  enclosed 
Thine  image  as  thou  art. 
Ah  !  strangely  hath  it  fared  ! 
*  I  know  not  if  thou  know'st 

The  love  within  my  heart. 
Exceedingly  afraid, 
My  hope  I  have  not  said. 
But  gazed  on  thee  apart. 

Because  desire  was  strong, 
I  made  a  portraiture 

In  thine  own  likeness,  love  : 
When  absence  has  grown  long, 
I  gaze,  till  I  am  sure 

That  I  behold  thee  move; 
As  one  who  purposeth 
To  save  himself  by  faith, 

Yet  sees  not,  nor  can  prove. 

Then  comes  the  burning  pain: 
As  with  the  man  that  hath 
A  fire  within  his  breast,  — 
When  most  he  struggles,  then 
Most  boils  the  flame  in  wrath, 
And  will  not  let  him  rest. 
So  still  I  burned  and  shook. 
To  pass,  and  not  to  look 
In  thy  face,  loveliest. 

For  where  thou  art  I  pass, 
And  do  not  hft  mine  eyes, 
Lady,  to  look  on  thee  : 
But,  as  I  go,  alas  ! 

With  bitterness  of  sighs 
I  mourn  exceedingly. 
Alas  !  the  constant  woe  ! 
Myself  I  do  not  know. 

So  sore  it  troubles  me. 

And  I  have  sung  thy  praise, 
Lady,  and  many  times 

Have  told  thy  beauties  o'er. 
Hast  heard  in  anyways, 

Perchance,  that  these  my  rhymes 
Are  song-craft  and  no  more  ? 
Nay,  rather  deem,  when  thou 
Shalt  see  me  pass  and  bow. 
These  words  I  sicken  for. 


Jacopo  da  Lentino.  201 

Delicate  song  of  mine, 

Go  sing  thou  a  new  strain  : 
Seek,  with  the  first  sunshine, 
Our  lady,  mine  and  thine,  — 

The  rose  of  Love's  domain, 
Than  red  gold  comelier. 
"  Lady,  in  Love's  name  hark 

To  Jacopo  the  clerk, 
Born  in  Lentino  here." 


in. 

Sonnet. 
No  Jewel  is  worth  his  Lady. 

Sapphire,  nor  'diamond,  nor  emerald, 

Nor  other  precious  stones  past  reckoning, 
Topaz,  nor  pearl,  nor  ruby  like  a  king. 

Nor  that  most  virtuous  jewel,  jasper  call'd, 

Nor  amethyst,  nor  onyx,  nor  basalt. 

Each  counted  for  a  very  marvellous  thing, 
Is  half  so  excellently  gladdening 

As  is  my  lady's  head  uncoronall'd. 

All  beauty  by  her  beauty  is  made  dim  ; 
Like  to  the  stars  she  is  for  loftiness  ; 

And  with  her  voice  she  taketh  away  grief. 
She  is  fairer  than  a  bud,  or  than  a  leaf. 
Christ  have  her  well  in  keeping,  of  His  grace. 

And  make  her  holy  and  beloved,  like  Him  ! 


IV. 

Canzonetta. 

He  will  neither  boast  nor  lament  to  his  Lady. 

Love  will  not  have  me  cry 

For  grace,  as  others  do  ; 
Nor  as  they  vaunt,  that  I 

Should  vaunt  my  love  to  you. 
For  service,  such  as  all 
Can  pay,  is  counted  small  ; 
Nor  is  it  much  to  praise 

The  thing  which  all  must  know  ;  — 

Such  pittance  to  bestow 
On  you  my  love  gainsays. 


202  yacopo  da  Lentino. 

Love  lets  me  not  turn  shape 
As  chance  or  use  may  strike  ; 

As  one  may  see  an  ape 
Counterfeit  all  alike. 

Then,  lady,  unto  you 

Be  it  not  mine  to  sue, 

For  grace  or  pitying. 
Many  the  lovers  be 
That  of  such  suit  are  free,  — 

It  is  a  common  thing. 

A  gem,  the  more  't  is  rare, 

The  more  its  cost  will  mount  : 
And,  be  it  not  so  fair, 

It  is  of  more  account. 
So,  coming  from  the  East, 
The  sapphire  is  increased 
In  worth,  though  scarce  so  bright  ; 

I  therefore  seek  thy  face 

Not  to  solicit  grace. 
Being  cheapened  and  made  slight. 

So  is  the  colosmine 

Now  cheapened,  which  in  fame 
Was  once  so  brave  and  fine, 

But  now  is  a  mean  gem. 
So  be  such  prayers  for  grace 
Not  heard  in  any  place  ; 
Would  they  indeed  hold  fast 

Their  worth,  be  they  not  said, 

Nor  by  true  lovers  made 
Before  nine  years  be  past. 


Lady,  sans  sigh  or  groan, 

My  longing  thou  canst  see  ; 
Much  better  am  I  known 

Than  to  myself,  to  thee. 
And  is  there  nothing  else 
That  in  my  heart  avails 
For  love  but  groan  and  sigh  ? 
And  wilt  thou  have  it  thus, 
This  love  betwixen  us  ì  — 
Much  rather  let  me  die. 


Jacopo  da  Lentino.  203 

V. 

Canzonetta. 

Of  his  Lady^  and  of  his  making  her  Likeness. 

My  Lady  mine,^  I  send  1 

These  sighs  in  joy  to  thee  ; 
Though,  loving  till  the  end, 

There  were  no  hope  for  me 
That  I  should  speak  my  love  ; 

And  I  have  loved  indeed, 

Though,  having  fearful  heed,  1 

It  was  not  spoken  of.  '■• 

Thou  art  so  high  and  great 

That  whom  I  love  I  fear  ; 
Which  thing  to  circumstate 

I  have  no  messenger  : 
Wherefore  to  Love  \  pray, 

On  whom  each  lover  cries. 

That  these  my  tears  and  sighs 
Find  unto  thee  a  way. 

Well  have  I  wished,  when  I 

At  heart  with  sighs  have  ach'd, 
That  there  were  in  each  sigh 

Spirit  and  intellect, 
The  which,  where  thou  dost  sit. 

Should  kneel  and  sue  for  aid, 

Since  I  am  thus  afraid 
And  have  no  strength  for  it. 

Thou,  lady,  killest  me, 

Yet  keepest  me  in  pain, 
For  thou  must  surely  see 

How,  fearing,  I  am  fain. 
Ah  !  why  not  send  me  still 

Some  solace,  small  and  slight, 

So  that  I  should  not  quite 
Despair  of  thy  good  will  ? 

Thy  grace,  all  else  above, 
Even  now  while  I  implore, 

*  Madonna  mia. 


204  yacopo  da  Lentino. 

Enamoureth  my  love 
To  love  thee  still  the  more. 

Yet  scarce  should  I  know  well 
A  greater  love  to  gain, 
Even  if  a  greater  pain, 

Lady,  were  possible. 

Joy  did  that  day  relax 

My  grief's  continual  stress, 

When  I  essayed  in  wax 
Thy  beauty's  life-likeness. 

Ah  !  much  more  beautiful 

Than  golden-haired  Yseult,  — 
Who  mak'st  all  men  exult, 

Who  bring'st  all  women  dule. 

And  certes  without  blame 
Thy  love  might  fall  to  me. 

Though  it  should  chance  my  name 
Were  never  heard  of  thee. 

Yea,  for  thy  love,  in  fine, 
Lentino  gave  me  birth. 
Who  am  not  nothing  worth 

If  worthy  to  be  thine. 


VL 

Sonnet. 
Of  his  Lady  s  face. 

Her  face  has  made  my  life  most  proud  and  glad 

Her  face  has  made  my  life  quite  wearisome  ; 

It  comforts  me  when  other  troubles  come. 
And  amid  other  joys  it  strikes  me  sad. 
Truly  I  think  her  face  can  drive  me  mad  ; 

For  now  I  am  too  loud,  and  anon  dumb. 

There  is  no  second  face  in  Christendom 
Has  a  like  power,  nor  shall  have,  nor  has  had. 
What  man  in  living  face  has  seen  such  eyes, 

Or  such  a  lovely  bending  of  the  head, 

Or  mouth  that  opens  to  so  sweet  a  smile  ? 
In  speech,  my  heart  before  her  faints  and  dies, 

And  into  Heaven  seems  to  be  spirited  ; 
So  that  I  count  me  blest  a  certain  while. 


Jacopo  da  Lentino.  205 


VII. 
Canzone. 

A  t  the  end  of  his  Hope. 

Remembering  this  —  how  Love 

Mocks  me,  and  bids  me  hoard 
Mine  ill  reward  that  keeps  me  nigh  to  death,  — 
How  it  doth  still  behove 

I  suffer  the  keen  sword, 
Whence  undeplor'd  I  may  not  draw  my  breath  ; 
In  memory  of  this  thing 
Sighing  and  sorrowing, 
I  am  languid  at  the  heart 

For  her  to  whom  I  bow. 

Craving  her  pity  now, 
And  who  still  turns  apart. 

I  am  dying,  and  through  her  — 

This  flower,  from  paradise 
Sent  in  some  wise,  that  I  might  have  no  rest. 
Truly  she  did  not  err 

To  come  before  his  eyes 
Who  fails  and  dies,  by  her  sweet  smile  possess'd  ; 
For,  through  her  countenance 
(Fair  brows  and  lofty  glance  !) 
I  live  in  constant  dule. 

Of  lovers'  hearts  the  chief 

For  sorrow  and  much  grief, 
My  heart  is  sorrowful. 

For  Love  has  made  me  weep 

With  sighs  that  do  him  wrong, 
Since,  when  most  strong  my  joy,  he  gave  this  woe. 
I  am  broken,  as  a  ship 

Perishing  of  the  song, 
Sweet,  sweet  and  long,  the  song  the  sirens  know. 
The  mariner  forgets, 
Voyaging  in  those  straits. 
And  dies  assuredly. 

Yea,  from  her  pride  perverse. 

Who  hath  my  heart  as  hers, 
Even  such  my  death  must  be. 

I  deemed  her  not  so  fell 

And  hard  but  she  would  greet. 
From  her  high  seat,  at  length,  the  love  I  bring; 
For  I  have  loved  her  well  ;  — 


2o6  yacopo  da  L enfino. 

Nor  that  her  face  so  sweet 
In  so  much  heat  would  keep  me  languishing; 
Seeing  that  she  I  serve 
All  honor  doth  deserve 
For  worth  unparallel'd. 

Yet  what  availeth  moan 

But  for  more  grief  alone  ? 
O  God  !  that  it  avail'd  ! 

Thou,  my  new  song,  shalt  pray 

To  her,  who  for  no  end 
Each  day  doth  tend  her  virtues  that  they  grow, 
Since  she  to  love  saith  nay 

(More  charms  she  had  attain'd 
Than  sea  hath  sand,  and  wisdom  even  so)  ;  — 
Pray  thou  to  her  that  she 
For  my  love  pity  me, 
Since  with  my  love  I  burn,  — 

That  of  the  fruit  of  love, 

While  help  may  come  thereof, 
She  give  to  me  in  turn. 


Mazzeo  di  Ricco.  207 


MAZZEO  DI   RICCO,   DA  MESSINA. 

I. 

Canzone. 

He  solicits  his  Lady^s  Pity. 

The  lofty  worth  and  lovely  excellence, 
Dear  lady,  that  thou  hast, 
Hold  me  consuming  in  the  fire  of  love  : 
That  I  am  much  afeared  and  wildered  thence, 
As  who,  being  meanly  plac'd, 
Would  win  unto  some  height  he  dreameth  of. 

Yet,  if  it  be  decreed. 
After  the  multiplying  of  vain  thought, 
By  Fortune's  favor  he  at  last  is  brought 
To  his  far  hope,  the  mighty  bliss  indeed. 

Thus,  in  considering  thy  loveliness, 
Love  maketh  me  afear'd,  — 
So  high  art  thou,  joyful,  and  full  of  good  ;  — 
And  all  the  more,  thy  scorn  being  never  less. 
Yet  is  this  comfort  heard,  — 
That  underneath  the  water  fire  doth  brood, 

Which  thing  would  seem  unfit 
By  law  of  nature.     So  may  thy  scorn  prove 
Changed  at  the  last,  through  pity  into  love, 
If  favorable  Fortune  should  permit. 

Lady,  though  I  do  love  past  utterance, 
Let  it  not  seem  amiss, 
Neither  rebuke  thou  the  enamoured  eyes. 
Look  thou  thyself  on  thine  own  countenance, 
From  that  charm  unto  this, 
All  thy  perfection  of  sufficiencies. 

So  shalt  thou  rest  assured 
That  thine  exceeding  beauty  lures  me  on 
Perforce,  as  by  the  passive  magnet-stone 
The  needle,  of  its  nature's  self,  is  lured. 


208  Mazzeo  di  Ricco. 


Certes,  it  was  of  Love's  dispiteousness 
That  I  must  set  my  life 
On  thee,  proud  lady,  who  accept'st  it  not. 
And  how  should  I  attain  unto  thy  grace, 
That  falter,  thus  at  strife 
To  speak  to  thee  the  thing  which  is  my  thought  ? 

Thou,  lovely  as  thou  art, 
I  pray  for  God,  when  thou  dost  pass  me  by, 
Look  upon  me  :  so  shalt  thou  certify. 
By  my  cheek's  ailing,  that  which  ails  my  heart. 

So  thoroughly  my  love  doth  tend  toward 

Thy  love  its  lofty  scope. 
That  I  may  never  think  to  ease  my  pain  ; 
Because  the  ice,  when  it  is  frozen  hard 

May  have  no  further  hope 
That  it  should  ever  become  snow  again. 

But,  since  Love  bids  me  bend 

Unto  thy  seigniory. 

Have  pity  thou  on  me. 
That  so  upon  thyself  all  grace  descend. 


IL 

Canzone. 

After  Six  Yeaj's''  service  he  reiiotmces  his  Lady. 

I  LABORED  these  six  years 
For  thee,  thou  bitter  sweet  ; 
Yea,  more  than  it  is  meet 
That  speech  should  now  rehearse 

Or  song  should  rhyme  to  thee  ; 
But  love  gains  never  aught 

From  thee,  by  depth  or  length  ; 
Unto  thine  eyes  such  strength 
And  calmness  thou  hast  taught, 
That  I  say  wearily  :  — 
"  The  child  is  most  like  me, 
Who  thinks  in  the  clear  stream 
To  catch  the  round  flat  moon 
And  draw  it  all  a-dripping  unto  him,  — 
Who  fancies  he  can  take  into  his  hand 
The  flame  o'  the  lamp,  but  soon 
Screams  and  is  nigh  to  swoon 
At  the  sharp  heat  his  flesh  may  not  withstand. 


Mazzeo  di  Ricco.  209 


Though  it  be  late  to  learn 
How  sore  I  was  possest, 
Yet  do  I  count  me  blest, 
Because  I  still  can  spurn 

This  thrall  which  is  so  mean, 
For  when  a  man,  once  sick, 
Has  got  his  health  anew. 
The  fever  which  boiled  through 
His  veins,  and  made  him  weak, 
Is  as  it  had  not  been. 
For  all  that  I  had  seen, 
Thy  spirit,  like  thy  face. 
More  excellently  shone 
Than  precious  crystals  in  an  untrod  place. 
Go  to  :  thy  worth  is  but  as  glass,  the  cheat, 
Whicli,  to  gaze  thereupon, 
Seems  crystal,  even  as  one, 
But  only  is  a  cunning  counterfeit. 

Foiled  hope  has  made  me  mad, 
As  one  who,  playing  high, 
Thought  to  grow  rich  thereby, 
And  loses  what  he  had. 

Yet  I  can  now  perceive 
How  true  the  saying  is 

That  says  :  "  If  one  turn  back 
Out  of  an  evil  track 
Through  loss  which  has  been  his, 
He  gains,  and  need  not  grieve." 
To  me  now,  by  your  leave, 
It  chances  as  to  him 
Who  of  his  purse  is  free 
To  one  whose  memory  for  such  debts  is  dim. 
Long  time  he  speaks  no  word  thereof,  being  loath 
But  having  asked,  when  he 
Is  answered  slightingly, 
Then  shall  he  lose  his  patience  and  be  wroth. 


III. 

Sonnet. 
Of  Self-seeing. 

If  any  his  own  foolishness  might  see 
As  he  can  see  his  fellow's  foolishness, 
His  evil  speakings  could  not  but  prove  less. 

For  his  own  fault  would  vex  him  inwardlv. 


2 1  o  Mazzeo  di  R  icco . 


But,  by  old  custom,  each  man  deems  that  he 

Has  to  himself  all  this  world's  worthiness  ; 

And  thou,  perchance,  in  blind  contentedness, 
Scorn'st  /iim,  yet  know'st  not  what  /think  of  t/iee. 
Wherefore  I  wish  it  were  so  ordered 

That  each  of  us  might  know  the  good  that 's  his, 
And  also  the  ill, — his  honor  and  his  shame. 
For  oft  a  man  has  on  his  proper  head 

Such  weight  of  sins,  that,  did  he  know  but  this, 
He  could  not  for  his  life  give  others  blame. 


Panmtccio  dal  Bagìto,  211 


PANNUCCIO   DAL  BAGNO,  PISANO. 

Canzone, 
Of  his  Chaìi^e  throiigh  Love. 

My  lady,  thy  delightful  high  command, 

Thy  wisdom's  great  intent, 
The  worth  which  ever  rules  thee  in  thy  sway 
(Whose  righteousness  of  strength  has  ta'en  in  hand 

Such  full  accomplishment 
As  height  makes  worthy  of  more  height  alway), 
Have  granted  to  thy  servant  some  poor  due 

Of  thy  perfection  ;  who 
From  them  has  gained  a  proper  will  so  fix'd, 

With  other  thought  unmix'd, 
That  nothing  save  thy  service  now  impels 
His  life,  and  his  heart  longs  for  nothing  else. 

Beneath  thy  pleasure,  lady  mine,  I  am  : 

The  circuit  of  my  will. 
The  force  of  all  my  life,  to  serve  thee  so  : 
Never  but  only  this  I  think  or  name, 

Nor  ever  can  I  fill 
My  heart  with  other  joy  that  man  may  know. 
And  hence  a  sovereign  blessedness  I  draw, 

Who  soon  most  clearly  saw 
That  not  alone  my  perfect  pleasure  is 

In  this  my  life-service  : 
But  Love  has  made  my  soul  with  thine  to  touch 
Till  my  heart  feels  unworthy  of  so  much. 

For  all  that  I  could  strive,  it  were  not  worth 
That  I  should  be  uplift 
Into  thy  love,  as  certainly  I  know  : 
Since  one  to  thy  deserving  should  stretch  forth 
His  love  for  a  free  gift, 
And  be  full  fain  to  serve  and  sit  below. 


2 1 2  Pannuccio  dal  Bagno. 

And  forasmuch  as  this  is  verity, 

It  came  to  pass  with  thee 
That  seeing  how  my  love  was  not  loud-tongued 

Yet  for  thy  service  long'd  — 
As  only  thy  pure  wisdom  brought  to  pass,  — 
Thou  knew'st  my  heart  for  only  what  it  was. 

Also  because  thou  thus  at  once  didst  learn 

This  heart  of  mine  and  thine, 
With  all  its  love  for  thee,  which  was  and  is  ; 
Thy  lofty  sense  that  could  so  well  discern 

Wrought  even  in  me  some  sign 
Of  thee,  and  of  itself  some  emphasis. 
Which  evermore  might  hold  my  purpose  fast. 

For  lo  !  thy  law  is  pass'd 
That  this  my  love  should  manifestly  be 

To  serve  and  honor  thee  : 
And  so  I  do  :  and  my  delight  is  full, 
Accepted  for  the  servant  of  thy  rule. 

Without  almost,  I  am  all  rapturous, 

Since  thus  my  will  was  set 
To  serve,  thou  flower  of  joy,  thine  excellence: 
Nor  ever  seems  it  anything  could  rouse 

A  pain  or  a  regret, 
But  on  thee  dwells  mine  every  thought  and  sense  ; 
Considering  that  from  thee  all  virtues  spread 

As  from  a  fountain-head,  — 
That  in  thy  gift  is  wisdom's  best  avail 

And  honor  without  fail  ; 
With  whom  each  sovereign  good  dwells  separate 
Fulfilling  the  perfection  of  thy  state. 

Lady,  since  I  conceived 
Thy  pleasurable  aspect  in  my  heart, 

My  life  has  been  apart 
In  shining  brightness  and  the  place  of  truth  ; 

Which  till  that  time,  good  sooth, 
Groped  among  shadows  in  a  darkened  place 

Where  many  hours  and  days 
It  hardly  ever  had  remembered  good. 

But  now  my  servitude 
Is  thine,  and  I  am  full  of  joy  and  rest. 

A  man  from  a  wild  beast 
Thou  madest  me,  since  for  thy  love  I  lived. 


Giacomino  Pugliesi.  213 


GIACOMINO   PUGLIESI,   KNIGHT  OF   PRATO. 

I. 

Canzonetta. 
Of  his  Lady  in  Absence. 

The  sweetly-favored  face 
She  has,  and  her  good  cheer, 

Have  filled  me  full  of  grace 
When  I  have  walked  with  her. 

They  did  upon  that  day  : 
And  everything  that  pass'd 
Comes  back  from  first  to  last 

Now  that  I  am  away. 


There  went  from  her  meek  mouth 

A  poor  low  sigh  which  made 
My  heart  sink  down  for  drouth. 

She  stooped,  and  sobbed,  and  said, 
"  Sir,  I  entreat  of  you 

Make  little  tarrying  : 

It  is  not  a  good  thing 
To  leave  one's  love  and  go." 

But  when  I  turned  about 

Saying,  "  God  keep  you  well  !  " 

As  she  look'd  up,  I  thought 
Her  lips  that  were  quite  pale 

Strove  much  to  speak,  but  she 
Had  not  half  strength  enough  : 
My  own  dear  graceful  love 

Would  not  let  go  of  me. 


214  Giacomino  Pugliesi. 

I  am  not  so  far,  sweet  maid, 
That  now  the  old  love  's  unfelt 

I  believe  Tristram  had 
No  such  love  for  Yseult  : 

And  when  I  see  your  eyes 
And  feel  your  breath  again, 
I  shall  forget  this  pain 

And  my  whole  heart  will  rise. 


II. 

Canzonetta. 
To  his  Lady,  in  Spring. 

To  see  the  green  returning 

To  stream-side,  garden,  and  meadow. 
To  hear  the  birds  give  warning, 

(The  laughter  of  sun  and  shadow 
Awaking  them  full  of  revel). 

It  puts  me  in  strength  to  carol 
A  music  measured  and  level, 

This  grief  in  joy  to  apparel  ; 
For  the  deaths  of  lovers  are  evil. 

Love  is  a  foolish  riot. 

And  to  be  loved  is  a  burden  ; 
Who  loves  and  is  loved  in  quiet 

Has  all  the  world  for  his  guerdon. 
Ladies  on  him  take  pity 

Who  for  their  sake  hath  trouble  : 
Yet,  if  any  heart  be  a  city 

From  Love  embarrèd  double, 
Thereof  is  a  joyful  ditty. 

That  heart  shall  be  always  joyful  ;  — 

But  I  in  the  heart,  my  lady. 
Have  jealous  doubts  unlawful, 

And  stubborn  pride  stands  ready. 
Yet  love  is  not  with  a  measure. 

But  still  is  willing  to  suffer 
Service  at  his  good  pleasure  : 

The  whole  Love  hath  to  offer 
Tends  to  his  perfect  treasure. 


Giacomino  Pugliesi.  215 

Thine  be  this  prelude-music 

That  was  of  thy  commanding  ; 
Thy  gaze  was  not  delusive,  — 

Of  my  heart  thou  hadst  understanding. 
Lady,  by  thine  attemp'rance 

Thou  heldst  my  life  from  pining  : 
This  tress  thou  gav'st,  in  semblance 

Like  gold  of  the  third  refining, 
Which  I  do  keep  for  remembrance. 


in. 

Canzone. 
Of  his  dead  Lady. 

Death,  why  hast  thou  made  life  so  hard  to  bear, 
Taking  my  lady  hence  ?     Hast  thou  no  whit 

Of  shame  ?     The  youngest  flower  and  the  most  fair 
Thou  hast  plucked  away,  and  the  world  wanteth  it. 

O  leaden  Death,  hast  thou  no  pitying? 

Our  warm  love's  very  spring 

Thou  stopp'st,  and  endest  what  was  holy  and  meet  ; 

And  of  my  gladdening 

Mak'st  a  most  woful  thing, 

And  in  my  heart  dost  bid  the  bird  not  sing 
That  sang  so  sweet. 

Once  the  great  joy  and  solace  that  I  had 
Was  more  than  is  with  other  gentlemen  :  — 

Now  is  my  love  gone  hence,  who  made  me  glad. 
With  her  that  hope  I  lived  in  she  hath  ta'en. 

And  left  me  nothing  but  these  sighs  and  tears,  — 

Nothing  of  the  old  years 
That  come  not  back  again, 

Wherein  I  was  so  happy,  being  hers. 

Now  to  mine  eyes  her  face  no  more  appears, 

Nor  doth  her  voice  make  music  in  mine  ears, 
As  it  did  then. 

O  God,  why  hast  thou  made  my  grief  so  deep  ? 

Why  set  me  in  the  dark  to  grope  and  pine  .'* 
Why  parted  me  from  her  companionship. 

And  crushed  the  hope  which  was  a  gift  of  thine  ? 
To  think,  dear,  that  I  never  any  more 
Can  see  thee  as  before  ! 


2i6  Giacomino  Pugliesi. 

Who  is  it  shuts  thee  in  ? 
Who  hides  that  smile  for  which  my  heart  is  sore, 
And  drowns  those  words  that  I  am  longing  for, 
Lady  of  mine  ? 

Where  is  my  lady,  and  the  lovely  face 

She  had,  and  the  sweet  motion  when  she  walk'd?  — 
Her  chaste,  mild  favor  —  her  so  delicate  grace  — 

Her  eyes,  her  mouth,  and  the  dear  way  she  talk'd  ? 
Her  courteous  bending  —  her  most  noble  air  — 
The  soft  fall  of  her  hair  ?  .  .  . 
My  lady  —  she  who  to  my  soul  so  rare 

A  gladness  brought  ! 
Now  I  do  never  see  her  anywhere, 
And  may  not,  looking  in  her  eyes,  gain  there 
The  blessing  which  I  sought. 

So  if  I  had  the  realm  of  Hungary, 

With  Greece,  and  all  the  Almayn  even  to  France, 
Or  Saint  Sophia's  treasure-hoard,  you  see 

All  could  not  give  me  back  her  countenance. 
For  since  the  day  when  my  dear  lady  died 
From  us  (with  God  being  born  and  glorified), 

No  more  pleasance 
Her  image  bringeth,  seated  at  my  side, 
But  only  tears.     Ay  me  !  the  strength  and  pride 
Which  it  brought  once. 

Had  I  my  will,  beloved,  I  would  say 

To  God,  unto  whose  bidding  all  things  bow, 

That  we  were  still  ^:ogether  night  and  day  : 
Yet  be  it  done  as  His  behests  allow. 

I  do  remember  that  while  she  remain'd 

With  me,  she  often  called  me  her  sweet  friend  ; 
But  does  not  now, 

Because  God  drew  her  towards  Him,  in  the  end. 

Lady,  that  peace  which  none  but  He  can  send 
Be  thine.     Even  so. 


Fra  Guittone  d''  Arezzo.  217 


FRA  GUITTONE   D'   AREZZO. 

Sonnet. 
To  the  Blessed  Virgm  Mary. 

Lady  of  Heaven,  the  mother  glorified 

Of  glory,  which  is  Jesus,  —  He  whose  death 

Us  from  the  gates  of  Hell  delivereth 
And  our  first  parents'  error  sets  aside  :  — 
Behold  this  earthly  Love,  how  his  darts  glide  — 

How  sharpened  —  to  what  fate  —  throughout  this  earth  ! 

Pitiful  Mother,  partner  of  our  birth. 
Win  these  from  following  where  his  flight  doth  guide. 
And  O,  inspire  in  me  that  holy  love 

Which  leads  the  soul  back  to  its  origin, 
Till  of  all  other  love  the  link  do  fail. 
This  water  only  can  this  fire  reprove,  — 

Only  such  cure  suffice  for  suchlike  sin  ; 
As  nail  from  out  a  plank  is  struck  by  nail. 


2i8  Bartolomeo  di  Sunt'  Angelo, 


BARTOLOMEO   DI   SANT'   ANGELO. 

Sonnet. 
He  jests  concerning  his  Poverty. 

I  AM  so  passing  rich  in  poverty 

That  I  could  furnish  forth  Paris  and  Rome, 

Pisa  and  Padua  and  Byzantium, 
Venice  and  Lucca,  Florence  and  Forlì  ; 
For  I  possess  in  actual  specie, 

Of  nihil  and  of  nothing  a  great  sum  ; 

And  unto  this  my  hoard  whole  shiploads  come, 
What  between  nought  and  zero,  annually. 
In  gold  and  precious  jewels  I  have  got 

A  hundred  ciphers'  worth,  all  roundly  writ  ; 
And  therewithal  am  free  to  feast  my  friend. 
Because  I  need  not  be  afraid  to  spend, 

Nor  doubt  the  safety  of  my  wealth  a  whit  :  — 
No  thief  will  ever  steal  thereof,  God  wot. 


Saladino  da  Pavia.  219 


SALADINO   DA   PAVIA. 

Dialogue. 

Lover  and  Lady. 

She. 

Fair  sir,  this  love  of  ours, 

In  joy  begun  so  well, 
I  see  at  length  to  fail  upon  thy  part  : 
Wherefore  my  heart  sinks  very  heavily. 

Fair  sir,  this  love  of  ours 
Began  with  amorous  longing,  well  I  ween  : 
Yea,  of  one  mind,  yea,  of  one  heart  and  will 

This  love  of  ours  hath  been. 

Now  these  are  sad  and  still  ; 
For  on  thy  part  at  length  it  fails,  I  see. 
And  now  thou  art  gone  from  me, 

Quite  lost  to  me  thou  art  : 
Wherefore  my  heart  in  this  pain  languisheth, 
Which  sinks  it  unto  death  thus  heavily. 


He. 


Lady,  for  will  of  mine 
Our  love  had  never  changed  in  anywise. 

Had  not  the  choice  been  thine 
With  so  much  scorn  my  homage  to  despise. 

I  swore  not  to  yield  sign 
Of  holding  'gainst  all  hope  my  heart-service. 

Nay,  let  thus  much  suffice  :  — 

From  thee  whom  I  have  serv'd, 
All  undeserved  contempt  is  my  reward,  — 
Rich  prize  prepared  to  guerdon  fealty  ! 


220  Saladino  da  Pavia. 


She. 

Fair  sir,  it  oft  is  found 
That  ladies  who  would  try  their  lovers  so, 

Have  for  a  season  frown'd, 
Not  from  their  heart  but  in  mere  outward  show. 

Then  chide  not  on  such  ground, 
Since  ladies  oft  have  tried  their  lovers  so. 

Alas,  but  I  will  go. 

If  now  it  be  thy  will. 
Yet  turn  thee  still,  alas  !  for  I  do  fear 
Thou  lov'st  elsewhere,  and  therefore  fly'st  from  me. 

He. 

Lady,  there  needs  no  doubt 
Of  my  good  faith,  nor  any  nice  suspense 

Lest  love  be  elsewhere  sought. 
For  thine  did  yield  me  no  such  recompense,  — 

Rest  thou  assured  in  thought,  — 
That  now,  within  my  life's  circumference, 

I  should  not  quite  dispense 

My  heart  from  woman's  laws. 
Which  for  no  cause  give  pain  and  sore  annoy, 
And  for  one  joy  a  world  of  misery. 


Bonagghmta  Urbiciani.  221 


BONAGGIUNTA  URBICIANI,   DA  LUCCA. 

I. 

Canzone. 

Of  the  true  End  of  Love  ;  with  a  Prayer  to  his  Lady. 

Never  was  joy  or  good  that  did  not  soothe 
And  beget  glorying, 
Neither  a  glorying  without  perfect  love. 
Wherefore,  if  one  would  compass  of  a  truth 
The  flight  of  his  soul's  wing, 
To  bear  a  loving  heart  must  him  behove. 
Since  from  the  flower  man  still  expects  the  fruit, 
And,  out  of  love,  that  he  desireth  ; 

Seeing  that  by  good  faith 

Alone  hath  love  its  comfort  and  its  joy; 

For,  suffering  falsehood,  love  were  at  the  root 

Dead  of  all  worth,  which  living  must  aspire  ; 

Nor  could  it  breed  desire 

If  its  reward  were  less  than  its  annoy. 

Even  such  the  joy,  the  triumph,  and  pleasance, 
Whose  issue  honor  is, 
And  grace,  and  the  m.ost  delicate  teaching  sent 
To  amorous  knowledge,  its  inheritance  ; 
Because  Love's  properties 
Alter  not  by  a  true  accomplishment  ; 
But  it  were  scarcely  well  if  one  should  gain, 
Without  much  pain  so  great  a  blessedness  ; 

He  errs,  when  all  things  bless, 
Whose  heart  had  else  been  humbled  to  implore 
He  gets  not  joy  who  gives  no  joy  again  ; 
Nor  can  v/in  love  whose  love  hath  little  scope  ; 
Nor  fully  can  know  hope 
Who  leaves  not  of  the  thing  most  languished  for. 


222  Bonaggmnta  Urbicia7ii. 

Wherefore  his  choice  must  err  immeasurably 
Who  seeks  the  image  when 
He  might  behold  the  thing  substantial. 
I  at  the  noon  have  seen  dark  night  to  be, 
Against  earth's  natural  plan, 
And  what  was  good  to  worst  abasement  fall. 
Then  be  thus  much  sufficient,  lady  mine  ; 
If  of  thy  mildness  pity  may  be  born, 
Count  thou  my  grief  outworn. 
And  turn  into  sweet  joy  this  bitter  ill  ; 
Lest  I  might  change,  if  left  too  long  to  pine  : 
As  one  who,  journeying,  in  mid  path  should  stay, 
And  not  pursue  his  way, 
But  should  go  back  against  his  proper  will. 

Natheless  I  hope,  yea  trust,  to  make  an  end 
Of  the  beginning  made, 
Even  by  this  sign  —  that  yet  I  triumph  not. 
And  if  in  truth,  against  my  will  constrain'd, 
To  turn  my  steps  essay'd, 
No  courage  have  I,  neither  strength,  God  wot. 
Such  is  Love's  rule,  who  thus  subdueth  me 
By  thy  sweet  face,  lovely  and  delicate  ; 

Through  which  I  live  elate. 
But  in  such  longing  that  I  die  for  love. 
Ah  !  and  these  words  as  nothing  seem  to  be  : 
For  love  to  such  a  constant  fear  has  chid 
My  heart  that  I  keep  hid 
Much  more  than  I  have  dared  to  tell  thee  of. 


n. 

Canzonetta. 

How  he  dreams  of  his  Lady. 

Lady,  my  wedded  thought. 
When  to  thy  shape  't  is  wrought, 
Can  think  of  nothing  else 

But  only  of  thy  grace, 

And  of  those  gentle  ways 
Wherein  thy  life  excels. 
For  ever,  sweet  one,  dwells 
Thine  image  on  my  sight 

(Even  as  it  were  the  gem 

Whose  name  is  as  thy  name),^ 
And  fills  the  sense  with  light. 

1  The  lady  was  probably  called   Diamante,  Margherita,  or  some   similar  name. 
(Note  to  Fior.  Ed.  1816.) 


Bonaggiunta  Urbiciani.  223 

Continual  ponderings 

That  brood  upon  these  things 

Yield  constant  agony  : 

Yea,  the  same  thoughts  have  crept 

About  me  as  I  slept. 
My  spirit  looks  at  me, 
And  asks,  "  Is  sleep  for  thee  ? 
Nay,  mourner,  do  not  sleep, 

But  fix  thine  eyes,  for  lo  ! 

Love's  fulness  thou  shalt  know 
By  steadfast  gaze  arid  deep." 

Then,  burning,  I  awake. 
Sore  tempted  to  partake 
Of  dreams  that  seek  thy  sight  : 

Until,  being  greatly  stirr'd, 

I  turn  to  where  I  heard 
That  whisper  in  the  night  ; 
And  there  a  breath  of  hght 
Shines  like  a  silver  star. 

The  same  is  mine  own  soul, 

Which  lures  me  to  the  goal 
Of  dreams  that  gaze  afar. 

But  now  my  sleep  is  lost  ; 
And  through  this  uttermost 
Sharp  longing  for  thine  eyes, 

At  length  it  may  be  said 

That  I  indeed  am  mad 
With  love's  extremities. 
Yet  when  in  such  sweet  wise 
Thou  passest  and  dost  smile, 

My  heart  so  fondly  burns, 

That  unto  sweetness  turns 
Its  bitter  pang  the  while. 

Even  so  Love  rends  apart 
My  spirit  and  my  heart, 
Lady,  in  loving  thee  ; 

Till  when  I  see  thee  now. 

Life  beats  within  my  brow 
And  would  be  gone  from  me. 
So  hear  I  ceaselessly. 
Love's  whisper  well  fulfill'd  — 

Even  I  am  he,  even  so, 

Whose  fia?ne  thy  heart  doth  know  : 
And  while  I  strive  I  yield. 


224  Bonaggmnta  Urbiciani. 

III. 

Sonnet. 
Of  Wisdom  and  Foresight. 

Such  wisdom  as  a  little  child  displays 

Were  not  amiss  in  certain  lords  of  fame  : 
For  where  he  fell,  thenceforth  he  shuns  the  place, 

And  having  suffered  blows,  he  feareth  them. 
Who  knows  not  this  may  forfeit  all  he  sways 

At  length,  and  find  his  friends  go  as  they  came. 
O  therefore  on  the  past  time  turn  thy  face, 

And,  if  thy  will  do  err,  forget  the  same. 
Because  repentance  brings  not  back  the  past  : 

Better  thy  will  should  bend  than  thy  life  break  : 
Who  owns  not  this,  by  him  shall  it  appear. 

And,  because  even  from  fools  the  wise  may  make 
Wisdom,  the  first  should  count  himself  the  last, 
Since  a  dog  scourged  can  bid  the  lion  fear. 


IV. 

Sonnet. 
Of  Cofitinence  in  Speech. 

Whoso  abandons  peace  for  war-seeking, 

'T  is  of  all  reason  he  should  bear  the  smart. 
Whoso  hath  evil  speech,  his  medicine 

Is  silence,  lest  it  seem  a  hateful  art. 
To  vex  the  wasps'  nest  is  not  a  wise  thing; 

Yet  who  rebukes  his  neighbor  in  good  part, 
A  hundred  years  shall  show  his  right  therein. 

Too  prone  to  fear,  one  wrongs  another's  heart. 
If  ye  but  knew  what  may  be  known  to  me, 

Ye  would  fall  sorry  sick,  nor  be  thus  bold 
To  cry  among  your  fellows  your  ill  thought. 
Wherefore  I  would  that  every  one  of  ye 

Who  thinketh  ill,  his  ill  thought  should  withhold 
If  that  ye  would  not  hear  it,  speak  it  not. 


Meo  Abbracciavacca.  225 


MEO   ABBRACCIAVACCA,   DA   PISTOIA. 


Canzone. 

He  will  be  silent  and  watchful  in  his  Love. 

Your  joyful  understanding,  lady  mine, 
Those  honors  of  fair  life 
Which  all  in  you  agree  to  pleasantness, 
Long  since  to  service  did  my  heart  assign  ; 
That  never  it  has  strife, 
Nor  once  remembers  other  means  of  grace  ; 
But  this  desire  alone  gives  light  to  it. 

Behold,  my  pleasure,  by  your  favor,  drew 
Me,  lady,  unto  you. 
All  beauty's  and  all  joy's  reflection  here  : 

From  whom  good  women  also  have  thought  fit 
To  take  their  life's  example  every  day  ; 
Whom  also  to  obey 
My  wish  and  will  have  wrought,  with  love  and  fear. 


With  love  and  fear  to  yield  obedience,  I 
Might  never  half  deserve  : 
Yet  you  must  know,  merely  to  look  on  me, 
How  my  heart  holds  its  love  and  lives  thereby  ; 
Though,  well  intent  to  serve, 
It  can  accept  Love's  arrow  silently, 
T  were  late  to  wait,  ere  I  would  render  plain 
My  heart  (thus  much  I  tell  you,  as  I  should), 
Which,  to  be  understood, 
Craves  therefore  the  fine  quickness  of  your  glance.  .* 

So  shall  you  know  my  love  of  such  high  strain  \\'i\^\^ 

As  never  yet  was  shown  by  its  own  will  ;       ^     V  VvA^ 
Whose  proffer  is  so  still,  .^^k     W^     ^'' 

That  love  in  heart  hates  love  in  cour^te?làac;le.\ 

.3  ^^v.     \...- 


v^\\ 


226  Meo  Abbracciavacca. 

In  countenance  oft  the  heart  is  evident 
Full  clad  in  mirth's  attire, 
Wherein  at  times  it  overweens  to  waste  : 
Which  yet  of  selfish  joy  or  foul  intent 
Doth  hide  the  deep  desire, 
And  is,  of  heavy  surety,  double-faced  ; 
Upon  things  double  therefore  look  ye  twice. 
O  ye  that  love  !  not  what  is  fair  alone 
Desire  to  make  your  own, 
But  a  wise  woman,  fair  in  purity  ; 
Nor  think  that  any,  without  sacrifice 
Of  his  own  nature,  suffers  service  still  ; 
But  out  of  high  free-will  ; 
In  honor  propped,  though  bowed  in  dignity. 

In  dignity  as  best  I  may,  must  I 
The  guerdon  very  grand, 
The  whole  of  it,  secured  in  purpose,  sing? 
Lady,  whom  all  my  heart  doth  magnify, 
You  took  me  in  your  hand. 
Ah  !  not  ungraced  with  other  guerdoning  : 
For  you  of  your  sweet  reason  gave  me  rest 
From  yearning,  from  desire,  from  potent  pain  ; 
Till,  now,  if  Death  should  gain 
Me  to  his  kingdom,  it  would  pleasure  me, 
Having  obeyed  the  whole  of  your  behest. 

Since  you  have  drawn,  and  I  am  yours  by  lot^ 
I  pray  you  doubt  me  not 
Lest  my  faith  swerve,  for  this  could  never  be. 

Could  never  be  ;  because  the  natural  heart 
Will  absolutely  build 
Her  dwelling-place  within  the  gates  of  truth  ; 
And,  if  it  be  no  grief  to  bear  her  part, 
Why,  then  by  change  were  fill'd 
The  measure  of  her  shame  beyond  all  ruth. 
And  therefore  no  delay  shall  once  disturb 
My  bounden  service,  nor  bring  grief  to  it  ; 
Nor  unto  you  deceit. 
True  virtue  her  provision  first  affords, 

Ere  she  yield  grace,  lest  afterward  some  curb 
Or  check  should  come,  and  evil  enter  in  : 
For  always  shame  and  sin 
Stand  covered,  ready,  full  of  faithful  words. 


Meo  Abbracciavacca.  227 

II. 

Ballata. 

His  Life  is  by  Contraries, 

By  the  long  sojourning 

That  I  have  made  with  grief, 
I  am  quite  changed,  you  see  ;  — 
If  I  weep,  'tis  for  glee  ; 
I  smile  at  a  sad  thing  ; 
Despair  is  my  relief. 

Good  hap  makes  me  afraid  ; 
Ruin  seems  rest  and  shade  ; 

In  May  the  year  is  old  ; 
With  friends  I  am  ill  at  ease  ; 
Among  foes  I  find  peace  ; 

At  noonday  I  feel  cold. 

The  thing  that  strengthens  others,  frightens  me. 

If  I  am  grieved,  I  sing  ; 

I  chafe  at  comforting  ; 
111  fortune  makes  me  smile  exultingly. 

And  yet,  though  all  my  days  are  thus,  —  despite 

A  shaken  mind,  and  eyes 

Which  see  by  contraries,  — 
I  know  that  without  wings  is  an  ill  flight. 


228  Ubaldo  di  Marco. 


UBALDO   DI   MARCO. 

Sonnet. 
Of  a  Lad/s  Love  for  him. 

My  body  resting  in  a  haunt  of  mine, 

I  ranged  among  alternate  memories  ; 

What  while  an  unseen  noble  lady's  eyes 
Were  fixed  upon  me,  yet  she  gave  no  sign  ; 
To  stay  and  go  she  sweetly  did  incline, 

Always  afraid  lest  there  were  any  spies  ; 

Then  reached  to  me,  — and  smelt  it  in  sweet  wise, 
And  reached  to  me  —  some  sprig  of  bloom  or  bine. 
Conscious  of  perfume,  on  my  side  I  leant. 

And  rose  upon  my  feet,  and  gazed  around 

To  see  the  plant  whose  flower  could  so  beguile. 
Finding  it  not,  I  sought  it  by  the  scent  ; 

And  by  the  scent,  in  truth,  the  plant  I  found, 
And  rested  in  its  shadow  a  great  while. 


Simbuono  Giudice.  229 


SIMBUONO  GIUDICE. 


Canzone. 

He  finds  that  Love  has  beguiled  him,  but  will  trust 
i?i  his  Lady. 

Often  the  day  had  a  most  joyful  morn 
That  bringeth  grief  at  last 
Unto  the  human  heart  which  deemed  all  well  : 
Of  a  sweet  seed  the  fruit  was  often  born 
That  hath  a  bitter  taste  : 
Of  mine  own  knowledge,  oft  it  thus  befell. 
I  say  it  for  myself,  who,  foolishly 
Expectant  of  all  joy, 
Triumphing  undertook 
To  love  a  lady  proud  and  beautiful. 
For  one  poor  glance  vouchsafed  in  mirth  to  me  : 
Wherefrom  sprang  all  annoy: 
For,  since  the  day  Love  shook 
My  heart,  she  ever  hath  been  cold  and  cruel. 


Well  thought  I  to  possess  my  joy  complete 
When  that  sweet  look  of  hers 
I  felt  upon  me,  amorous  and  kind  : 
Now  is  my  hope  even  underneath  my  feet. 
And  still  the  arrow  stirs 
Within  my  heart  —  (oh  hurt  no  skill  can  bind  !)  — 
Which  through  mine  eyes  found  entrance  cunningly  ; 
In  manner  as  through  glass 
Light  pierces  from  the  sun, 
And  breaks  it  not,  but  wins  its  way  beyond,  — 
As  into  an  unaltered  mirror,  free 

And  still,  some  shape  may  pass. 
Yet  has  my  heart  begun 
To  break,  methinks,  for  I  on  death  grow  fond. 


230  Simbiwno  Giudice. 

But,  even  though  death  were  longed  for,  the  sharp  wound 
I  have  might  yet  be  heal'd, 
And  I  not  altogether  sink  to  death. 
In  mine  own  foolishness  the  curse  I  found, 
Who  foolish  faith  did  yield 
Unto  mine  eyes,  m  hope  that  sickeneth. 
Yet  might  love  still  exult  and  not  be  sad  — 
(For  some  such  utterance 
Is  at  my  secret  heart)  — 
If  from  herself  the  cure  it  could  obtain,  — 
Who  hath  indeed  the  power  Achilles  had, 
To  wit,  that  of  his  lance 
The  wound  could  by  no  art 
Be  closed  till  it  were  touched  therewith  again. 

So  must  I  needs  appeal  for  pity  now 
From  her  on  her  own  fault, 
And  in  my  prayer  put  meek  humility  : 
For  certes  her  much  worth  will  not  allow 
That  anything  be  call'd 
Treacherousness  in  such  an  one  as  she, 
In  whom  is  judgment  and  true  excellence. 
Wherefore  I  cry  for  grace  ; 
Not  doubting  that  all  good, 
Joy,  wisdom,  pity,  must  from  her  be  shed  ; 
For  scarcely  should  it  deal  in  death's  offence, 
The  so-beloved  face 

So  watched  for  ;  rather  should 
All  death  and  ill  be  thereby  subjected. 

And  since,  in  hope  of  mercy,  I  have  bent 
Unto  her  ordinance 
Humbly  my  heart,  my  body,  and  my  life. 
Giving  her  perfect  power  acknowledgment,  — 
I  think  some  kinder  glance 
She  '11  deign,  and,  in  mere  pity,  pause  from  strife. 
She  surely  shall  enact  the  good  lord's  part  : 
When  one  whom  force  compels 
Doth  yield,  he  is  pacified. 
Forgiving  him  therein  where  he  did  err. 
Ah  !  well  I  know  she  hath  the  noble  heart 
Which  in  the  lion  quells 
Obduracy  of  pride  ; 
Whose  nobleness  is  for  a  crown  on  her. 


Mas  olino  da  Todi.  23 1 


MASOLINO   DA  TODI. 

Sonnet. 
Of  Work  and  Wealth. 

A  MAN  should  hold  in  very  dear  esteem 

The  first  possession  that  his  labors  gain'd  ; 

For,  though  great  riches  be  at  length  attain'd, 
From  that  first  mite  they  were  increased  to  him. 
Who  foUoweth  after  his  own  wilful  whim 

Shall  see  himself  outwitted  in  the  end  ; 

Wherefore  I  still  would  have  him  apprehend 
His  fall,  who  toils  not  being  once  supreme. 
Thou  seldom  shalt  find  folly,  of  the  worst, 

Holding  companionship  with  poverty, 
Because  it  is  distracted  of  much  care. 
Howbeit,  if  one  that  hath  been  poor  at  first 

Is  brought  at  last  to  wealth  and  dignity, 
Still  the  worst  folly  thou  shalt  find  it  there. 


232  Onesto  di  Bojtcima. 


ONESTO   DI   BONCIMA,   BOLOGNESE. 

I. 

Sonnet. 
Of  the  Last  Judg7nent, 

Upon  that  cruel  season  when  our  Lord 

Shall  come  to  judge  the  world  eternally; 
When  to  no  man  shall  anything  afford 

Peace  in  the  heart,  how  pure  soe'er  it  be  ; 
When  heaven  shall  break  asunder  at  His  word, 

With  a  great  trembling  of  the  earth  and  sea; 
When  even  the  just  shall  fear  the  dreadful  sword,  - 

The  wicked  crying,  "  Where  shall  I  cover  me  ?  " 
When  no  one  angel  in  His  presence  stands 

That  shall  not  be  affrighted  of  that  wrath, 
Except  the  Virgin  Lady,  she  our  guide  :  — 
How  shall  I  then  escape,  whom  sin  commands  ? 

Out  and  alas  on  me  !     There  is  no  path, 
If  in  her  prayers  I  be  not  justified. 


Onesto  di  Boncima.  233 


II. 

Sonnet. 

He  wishes  that  he  could  7neet  his  Lady  alone. 

Whether  all  grace  have  failed  I  scarce  may  scan, 
Be  it  of  mere  mischance,  or  art's  ill  sway, 
That  this-wise,  Monday,  Tuesday,  every  day, 

Afflicts  me,  through  her  means,  with  bale  and  ban. 

Now  are  my  days  but  as  a  painful  span  ; 

Nor  once,  "  Take  heed  of  dying  "  did  she  say. 
I  thank  thee  for  my  life  thus  cast  away, 

Thou  who  hast  wearied  out  a  living  man. 

Yet,  oh  !  my  Lord,  if  I  were  blest  no  more 
Than  thus  much,  —  clothed  with  thy  humility, 
To  find  her  for  a  single  hour  alone,  — 

Such  perfectness  of  joy  would  triumph  o'er 
This  grief  wherein  I  waste,  that  I  should  be 
As  a  new  image  of  Love  to  look  upon. 


234  Terino  da  Castel  Fiorejttino. 


TERINO    DA   CASTEL   FIORENTINO. 

Sonnet. 
To  Onesto  di  Boncima,  in  A?tswer  to  the  foregoing. 

If,  as  thou  say'st,  thy  love  tormenteth  thee, 

That  thou  thereby  wast  in  the  fear  of  death, 
Messer  Onesto,  couldst  thou  bear  to  be 

Far  from  Love's  self,  and  breathing  other  breath.^ 
Nay,  thou  wouldst  pass  beyond  the  greater  sea 

(I  do  not  speak  of  the  Alps,  an  easy  path), 
For  thy  life's  gladdening  ;  if  so  to  see 

That  light  which  for  my  life  no  comfort  hath. 
But  rather  makes  my  grief  the  bitterer  : 

For  I  have  neither  ford  nor  bridge  —  no  course 
To  reach  my  lady,  or  send  word  to  her. 
And  there  is  not  a  greater  pain,  I  think. 

Than  to  see  waters  at  the  limpid  source, 
And  to  be  much  athirst,  and  not  to  drink. 


Alaestro  Migliore.  235 


MAESTRO   MICxLIORE,    DA   FIORENZA. 

Sonnet. 
He  declares  all  Love  to  be  Grief. 

Love  taking  leave,  my  heart  then  leaveth  me, 
And  is  enamour'd  even  while  it  would  shun  ; 
For  I  have  looked  so  long  upon  the  sun 

That  the  sun's  glory  is  now  in  all  I  see. 

To  its  first  will  unwilling  may  not  be 

This  heart  (though  by  its  will  its  death  be  won), 
Having  remembrance  of  the  joy  forerun  : 

Yea,  all  life  else  seems  dying  constantly. 

Ay  and  alas  !  in  love  is  no  relief, 

For  any  man  who  loveth  in  full  heart. 

That  is  not  rather  grief  than  gratefulness. 

Whoso  desires  it,  the  beginning  is  grief  ; 
Also  the  end  is  grief,  most  grievous  smart  ; 
And  grief  is  in  the  middle,  and  is  call'd  grace. 


236  Dello  da  Sigila. 


DELLO   DA   SIGNA. 

Ballata. 

Jiis  Creed  of  Ideal  Love. 

Prohibiting  all  hope 
Of  the  fulfilment  of  the  joy  of  love, 
My  lady  chose  me  for  her  lover  still. 

So  am  I  lifted  up 
To  trust  her  heart  which  piteous  pulses  move, 
Her  face  which  is  her  joy  made  visible. 

Nor  have  I  any  fear 
Lest  love  and  service  should  be  met  with  scorn, 
Nor  doubt  that  thus  I  shall  rejoice  the  more. 

For  ruth  is  born  of  prayer  ; 
Also,  of  ruth  delicious  love  is  born  ; 

And  service  wrought  makes  glad  the  servitor. 

Behold,  I,  serving  more  than  others,  love 
One  lovely  more  than  all  : 
And,  singing  and  exulting,  look  for  joy 
There  where  my  homage  is  for  ever  paid. 

And,  for  I  know  she  does  not  disapprove 
If  on  her  grace  I  call, 
My  soul's  good  trust  I  will  not  yet  destroy, 
Though  Love's  fulfilment  stand  prohibited. 


Folgore  da  San  G eminiano.  237 


FOLGORE   DA   SAN   GEMINIANO. 

I. 

Sonnet. 
To  the  Gtielf  Faction. 

Because  ye  made  your  backs  your  shields,  it  came 
To  pass,  ye  Guelfs,  that  these  your  enemies 
From  hares  grew  lions  :  and  because  your  eyes 

Turned  homeward,  and  your  spurs  e'en  did  the  same, 

Full  many  an  one  who  still  might  win  the  game 
In  fevered  tracts  of  exile  pines  and  dies. 
Ye  blew  your  bubbles  as  the  falcon  flies. 

And  the  wind  broke  them  up  and  scattered  them. 

This  counsel,  therefore.     Shape  your  high  resolves 
In  good  King  Robert's  humor,i  and  afresh 

Accept  your  shames,  forgive,  and  go  your  way. 
And  so  her  peace  is  made  with  Pisa!     Yea, 
What  cares  she  for  the  miserable  flesh 

That  in  the  wilderness  has  fed  the  wolves  ? 

*  See  what  is  said  in  allusion  to  his  government  of  Florence  by  Dante  {ParacL 
viii.). 


238  Folgore  da  San  Geminiamo. 

II. 
Sonnet. 

To  the  Sajne. 

Were  ye  but  constant,  Guelfs,  in  war  or  peace, 

As  in  divisions  ye  are  constant  still  ! 

There  is  no  wisdom  in  your  stubborn  will, 
Wherein  all  good  things  wane,  all  harms  increase. 
But  each  upon  his  fellow  looks,  and  sees 

And  looks  again,  and  likes  his  favor  ill  ; 

And  traitors  rule  ye  ;  and  on  his  own  sill 
Each  stirs  the  fire  of  household  enmities. 
What,  Guelfs  !  and  is  Monte  Catini  ^  quite 

Forgot,  —  where  still  the  mothers  and  sad  wives 
Keep  widowhood,  and  curse  the  Ghibellins  ? 
O  fathers,  brothers,  yea,  all  dearest  kins  ! 

Those  men  of  ye  that  cherish  kindred  lives 
Even  once  again  must  set  their  teeth  and  fight. 


III. 

Sonnet. 
Of  Virtue. 

The  flower  of  Virtue  is  the  heart's  content; 

And  fame  is  Virtue's  fruit  that  she  doth  bear; 

And  Virtue's  vase  is  fair  without  and  fair 
Within  ;  and  Virtue's  mirror  brooks  no  taint  ; 
And  Virtue  by  her  names  is  sage  and  saint  ; 

And  Virtue  hath  a  steadfast  front  and  clear; 

And  Love  is  Virtue's  constant  minister  ; 
And  Virtue's  gift  of  gifts  is  pure  descent. 
And  Virtue  dwells  with  knowledge,  and  therein 

Her  cherished  home  of  rest  is  real  love  ; 
And  Virtue's  strength  is  in  a  suffering  will  ; 
And  Virtue's  work  is  life  exempt  from  sin. 

With  arms  that  aid  ;  and  in  the  sum  hereof, 
All  Virtue  is  to  render  good  for  ill. 

*  The  battle  of  Monte  Catini  was  fought  and  won  by  the  Ghibelline  leader,  Uguc- 
cione  della  Faggiola,  against  the  Florentines,  August  29,  1315.  This  would  seem  to 
date  Folgore's  career  further  on  than  the  period  usually  assigned  to  him  (about  1260), 
and  the  question  arises  whether  the  above  sonnet  be  really  his. 


Folgore  da  San  G eminiano.  23c 

OF  THE   MONTHS. 

Twelve  Sonnets. 

Addressed  to  a  Fellowship  of  Sienese  Nobles y 

DEDICATION. 

Unto  the  blithe  and  lordly  Fellowship 

(I  know  not  where,  but  wheresoe'er,  I  know, 

Lordly  and  blithe),  be  greeting  ;  and  thereto, 
Dogs,  hawks,  and  a  full  purse  wherein  to  dip  ; 
Quails  struck  i'  the  flight  ;  nags  mettled  to  the  whip  ; 

Hart-hounds,  hare-hounds,  and  blood-hounds  even  so  ; 

And  o'er  that  realm,  a  crown  for  Niccolò, 
Whose  praise  in  Siena  springs  from  lip  to  lip. 
Tingoccio,  Atuin  di  Togno,  and  Ancaiàn, 

Bartolo  and  Mugaro  and  Faenot, 
Who  well  might  pass  for  children  of  King  Ban, 

Courteous  and  valiant  more  than  Lancelot,  — 
To  each,  God  speed  !  how  worthy  every  man 

To  hold  high  tournament  in  Camelot. 

JANUARY. 

For  January  I  give  you  vests  of  skins, 
And  mighty  fires  in  hall,  and  torches  lit  ; 
Chambers  and  happy  beds  with  all  things  fit  ; 

Smooth  silken  sheets,  rough  furry  counterpanes  ; 

And  sweetmeats  baked  ;  and  one  that  deftly  spins 

1  This  fellowship  or  club  {Brigata),  so  highly  approved  and  encouraged  by  our 
Folgore,  is  the  same  to  which,  and  to  some  of  its  members  by  name,  scornful  allusion 
is  made  by  Dante  {I>i/ey>io,  C.  xxix.  1.  130),  where  he  speaks  of  the  hare-brained 
character  of  the  Sienese.  Mr.  Cayley,  in  liis  valuable  notes  on  Dante,  says  of  it  :  "A 
dozen  extravagant  youths  of  Siena  had  put  together  by  equal  contributions  216,000 
florins  to  spend  in  pleasuring  ;  they  were  reduced  in  about  a  twelvemonth  to  the 
extremes  of  poverty.  It  was  their  practice  to  give  mutual  entertainments  twice 
a-month;  at  each  of  which,  three  tables  having  been  sumptuously  covered,  they  would 
feast  at  one,  wash  their  hands  on  another,  and  throw  the  last  out  of  window." 

There  exists  a  second  curious  series  of  sonnets  for  the  months,  addressed  also  to 
this  club,  by  Cene  della  Chitarra  d'  Arezzo.  Here,  however,  all  sorts  of  disasters  and 
discomforts,  in  the  same  pursuits  of  which  Folgore  treats,  are  imagined  for  the  prodi- 
gals ;  each  sonnet,  too,  being  composed  with  the  same  terminations  in  its  rhymes  as 
the  corresponding  one  among  his.  They  would  seem  to  have  been  wintten  after  the 
ruin  of  the  club,  as  a  satirical  prophecy  of  the  year  to  succeed  the  golden  one.  But  this 
second  series,  though  sometimes  laughable,  not  having  the  poetical  msrit  of  the  first,  I 
have  not  included  it. 


140  Folgore  da  San  Geminiamo. 

Warm  arras  ;  and  Douay  cloth,  and  store  of  it  ; 

And  on  this  merry  manner  still  to  twit 
The  wind,  when  most  his  mastery  the  wind  wins. 
Or  issuing  forth  at  seasons  in  the  day, 

Ye  '11  fling  soft  handfuls  of  the  fair  white  snow 
Among  the  damsels  standing  round,  in  play  : 

And  when  you  all  are  tired  and  all  aglow, 
Indoors  again  the  court  shall  hold  its  sway, 

And  the  free  Fellowship  continue  so. 


FEBRUARY. 

In  February  I  give  you  gallant  sport 
Of  harts  and  hinds  and  great  wild  boars  ;  and  all 
Your  company  good  foresters  and  tall, 

With  buskins  strong,  with  jerkins  close  and  short  ; 

And  in  your  leashes,  hounds  of  brave  report; 
And  from  your  purses,  plenteous  money-fall, 
In  very  spleen  of  misers'  starveling  gall, 

Who  at  your  generous  customs  snarl  and  snort. 

At  dusk  wend  homeward,  ye  and  all  your  folk, 
All  laden  from  the  wilds,  to  your  carouse, 
With  merriment  and  songs  accompanied: 

And  so  draw  wine  and  let  the  kitchen  smoke  ; 
And  so  be  till  the  first  watch  glorious  ; 
Then  sound  sleep  to  you  till  the  day  be  wide. 


MARCH. 

In  March  I  give  you  plenteous  fisheries 
Of  lamprey  and  of  salmon,  eel  and  trout. 
Dental  and  dolphin,  sturgeon,  all  the  rout 

Of  fish  in  all  the  streams  that  fill  the  seas. 

With  fishermen  and  fishing-boats  at  ease, 

Sail-barques  and  arrow-barques,  and  galleons  stout. 
To  bear  you,  while  the  season  lasts,  far  out, 

And  back,  through  spring,  to  any  port  you  please. 

But  with  fair  mansions  see  that  it  be  fill'd, 
With  everything  exactly  to  your  mind, 
And  every  sort  of  comfortable  folk. 

No  convent  suffer  there,  nor  priestly  guild  : 

Leave  the  mad  monks  to  preach  after  their  kind 
Their  scanty  truth,  their  lies  beyond  a  joke. 


Folgore  da  San  Geminiano.  241 


APRIL. 

I  GIVE  you  meadow-lands  in  April,  fair 

With  over-growth  of  beautiful  green  grass  ; 

There  among  fountains  the  glad  hours  shall  pass, 
And  pleasant  ladies  bring  you  solace  there. 
With  steeds  of  Spain  and  ambling  palfreys  rare  ; 

Provengal  songs  and  dances  that  surpass  ; 

And  quaint  French  mummings  ;  and  through  hollow  brass 
A  sound  of  German  music  on  the  air. 
And  gardens  ye  shall  have,  that  every  one 

May  lie  at  ease  about  the  fragrant  place  ; 

And  each  with  fitting  reverence  shall  bow  down 
Unto  that  youth  to  whom  I  gave  a  crown 

Of  precious  jewels  like  to  those  that  grace 
The  Babylonian  Kaiser,  Prester  John. 


MAY. 

I  GIVE  you  horses  for  your  games  in  May, 
And  all  of  them  well  trained  unto  the  course,  — 
Each  docile,  swift,  erect,  a  goodly  horse  ; 
With  armor  on  their  chests,  and  bells  at  play 
Between  their  brows,  and  pennons  fair  and  gay  ; 
Fine  nets,  and  housings  meet  for  warriors, 
Emblazoned  with  the  shields  ye  claim  for  yours  ; 
Gules,  argent,  or,  all  dizzy  at  noonday. 
And  spears  shall  split,  and  fruit  go  flying  up 
In  merry  counterchange  for  wreaths  that  drop 

From  balconies  and  casements  far  above  ; 
And  tender  damsels  with  young  men  and  youths 
Shall  kiss  together  on  the  cheeks  and  mouths  ; 
And  every  day  be  glad  with  joyful  love. 


JUNE. 

In  June  I  give  you  a  close-wooded  fell, 

With  crowns  of  thicket  coiled  about  its  head, 
With  thirty  villas  twelve  times  turreted, 

All  girdling  round  a  little  citadel  ; 

And  in  the  midst  a  springhead  and  fair  \vell 

With  thousand  conduits  branched  and  shining  speed, 
Wounding  the  garden  and  the  tender  mead, 
16 


242  Folgore  da  San  Geuiiìiiano. 

Yet  to  the  freshened  grass  acceptable. 
And  lemons,  citrons,  dates,  and  oranges, 

And  all  the  fruits  whose  savor  is  most  rare, 
Shall  shine  within  the  shadow  of  your  trees  ; 

And  every  one  shall  be  a  lover  there  ; 
Until  your  life,  so  filled  with  courtesies. 

Throughout  the  world  be  counted  debonair. 


JULY. 

For  July,  in  Siena,  by  the  willow-tree, 
I  give  you  barrels  of  white  Tuscan  wine 
In  ice  far  down  your  cellars  stored  supine  ; 

And  morn  and  eve  to  eat  in  company 

Of  those  vast  jellies  dear  to  you  and  me  ; 

Of  partridges  and  youngling  pheasants  sweet, 
Boiled  capons,  sovereign  kids  :  and  let  their  treat 

Be  veal  and  garlic,  with  whom  these  agree. 

Let  time  slip  by,  till  by-and-by,  all  day  ; 
And  never  swelter  through  the  heat  at  all, 

But  move  at  ease  at  home,  sound,  cool,  and  gay  ; 
And  wear  sweet-colored  robes  that  lightly  fall  : 

And  keep  your  tables  set  in  fresh  array, 
Not  coaxing  spleen  to  be  your  seneschal. 


AUGUST. 

For  August,  be  your  dwelling  thirty  towers 
Within  an  Alpine  valley  mountainous, 
Where  never  the  sea-wind  may  vex  your  house, 

But  clear  life  separate,  like  a  star,  be  yours. 

There  horses  shall  wait  saddled  at  all  hours, 
That  ye  may  mount  at  morning  or  at  eve  : 
On  each  hand  either  ridge  ye  shall  perceive, 

A  mile  apart,  which  soon  a  good  beast  scours. 

So  alway,  drawing  homewards,  ye  shall  tread 
Your  valley  parted  by  a  rivulet 

Which  day  and  night  shall  flow  sedate  and  smooth. 

There  all  through  noon  ye  may  possess  the  shade, 
And  there  your  open  purses  shall  entreat 

The  best  of  Tuscan  cheer  to  feed  your  youth. 


Folgore  da  San  Gemmiano.  243 


SEPTEMBER. 

And  in  September,  O  what  keen  delight  ! 

Falcons  and  astors,  merlins,  sparrowhawks; 

Decoy-birds  that  shall  lure  your  game  in  flocks  ; 
And  hounds  with  bells  :  and  gauntlets  stout  and  tight  ; 
Wide  pouches;  crossbows  shooting  out  of  sight: 

Arblasts  and  javelins  ;  balls  and  ball-cases  ; 

All  birds  the  best  to  fly  at  ;  moulting  these, 
Those  reared  by  hand  ;  with  finches  mean  and  slight  ; 
And  for  their  chase,  all  birds  the  best  to  fly; 

And  each  to  each  of  you  be  lavish  still 
In  gifts  ;  and  robbery  find  no  gainsaying  ; 
And  if  you  meet  with  travellers  going  by, 

Their  purses  from  your  purse's  flow  shall  fill  ; 
And  avarice  be  the  only  outcast  thing. 


OCTOBER. 

Next,  for  October,  to  some  sheltered  coign 

Flouting  the  winds,  I  '11  hope  to  find  you  slunk; 

Though  in  bird-shooting  (lest  all  sport  be  sunk), 
Your  foot  still  press  the  turf,  the  horse  your  groin. 
At  night  with  sweethearts  in  the  dance  you  '11  join. 

And  drink  the  blessed  must,  and  get  quite  drunk. 

There  's  no  such  life  for  any  human  trunk  ; 
And  that 's  a  truth  that  rings  like  golden  coin  ! 
Then,  out  of  bed  again  when  morning's  come. 

Let  your  hands  drench  your  face  refreshingly, 
And  take  your  physic  roast,  with  flask  and  knife. 
Sounder  and  snugger  you  shall  feel  at  home 

Than  lake-fish,  river-fish,  or  fish  at  sea. 
Inheriting  the  cream  of  Christian  life. 


NOVEMBER. 

Let  baths  and  wine-butts  be  November's  due, 
With  thirty  mule-loads  of  broad  gold-pieces; 
And  canopy  with  silk  the  streets  that  freeze  ; 

And  keep  your  drink-horns  steadily  in  view. 

Let  every  trader  have  his  gain  of  you  : 

Clareta  shall  your  lamps  and  torches  send,  — 
Caeta,  citron-candies  without  end  ; 


»44  Folgore  da  San  Gcmiìiiano. 

And  each  shall  drink,  and  help  his  neighbor  to. 
And  let  the  cold  be  great,  and  the  fire  grand  : 

And  still  for  fowls,  and  pastries  sweetly  wrought, 
For  hares  and  kids,  for  roast  and  boiled,  be  sure 
You  always  have  your  appetites  at  hand  ; 

And  then  let  night  howl  and  heaven  fall,  so  nought 
Be  missed  that  makes  a  man's  bed-furniture. 


DECEMBER. 

Last,  for  December,  houses  on  the  plain, 

Ground-floors  to  live  in,  logs  heaped  mountain-high, 
And  carpets  stretched,  and  newest  games  to  try, 

And  torches  lit,  and  gifts  from  man  to  man 

(Your  host,  a  drunkard  and  a  Catalan)  ; 

And  whole  dead  pigs,  and  cunning  cooks  to  ply 
Each  throat  with  tit-bits  that  shall  satisfy  ; 

And  wine-butts  of  Saint  Galganus'  brave  span. 

And  be  your  coats  well-lined  and  tightly  bound. 

And  wrap  yourselves  in  cloaks  of  strength  and  weight, 
With  gallant  hoods  to  put  your  faces  through. 

And  make  your  game  of  abject  vagabond 
Abandoned  miserable  reprobate 

Misers  ;  don't  let  them  have  a  chance  with  you. 


CONCLUSION. 

And  now  take  thought,  my  sonnet,  who  is  he 

That  most  is  full  of  every  gentleness  ; 

And  say  to  him  (for  thou  shalt  quickly  guess 
His  name)  that  all  his  'bests  are  law  to  me. 
For  if  I  held  fair  Paris  town  in  fee, 

And  were  not  called  his  friend,  't  were  surely  less. 

Ah  !  had  he  but  the  emperor's  wealth,  my  place 
Were  fitted  in  his  love  more  steadily 
Than  is  Saint  Francis  at  Assisi.     Alway 

Commend  him  unto  me  and  his,  —  not  least 
To  Caian,  held  so  dear  in  the  blithe  band. 

Folgore  da  San  Geminiano  "  (say) 

"  Has  sent  me,  charging  me  to  travel  fast, 
Because  his  heart  went  with  you  in  your  hand." 


Folgore  da  San  G eminiano.  245 

OF   THE   WEEK. 

Seven  Sonnets. 
DEDICATION. 

There  is  among  my  thoughts  the  joyous  plan 
To  fashion  a  bright-jewelled  carcanet, 
Which  I  upon  such  worthy  brows  would  set. 

To  say,  it  suits  them  fairly  as  it  can. 

And  now  I  have  newly  found  a  gentleman, 
Of  courtesies  and  birth  commensurate, 
Who  better  would  become  the  imperial  state 

Than  fits  the  gem  within  the  signet's  span. 

Carlo  di  Messer  Guerra  Cavicciuoli,^ 

Of  him  I  speak,  —  brave,  wise,  of  just  award 

And  generous  service,  let  who  list  command  : 
And  litiielier  limbed  than  ounce  or  leopard. 

He  holds  not  money-bags,  as  children,  holy  ; 
For  Lombard  Esté  hath  no  freer  hand. 


MONDAY. 

The  Day  of  Songs  atid  Love. 

Now  with  the  moon  the  day-star  Lucifer 
Departs,  and  night  is  gone  at  last,  and  day 
Brings,  making  all  men's  spirits  strong  and  gay, 

A  gentle  wind  to  gladden  the  new  air. 

Lo  !  this  is  Monday,  the  week's  harbinger; 
Let  music  breathe  her  softest  matin-lay. 
And  let  the  loving  damsels  sing  to-day, 

And  the  sun  wound  with  heat  at  noontide  here. 

And  thou,  young  lord,  arise  and  do  not  sleep, 
For  now  the  amorous  day  inviteth  thee 

The  harvest  of  thy  lady's  youth  to  reap. 

Let  coursers  round  the  door,  and  palfreys,  be. 
With  squires  and  pages  clad  delightfully  ; 

And  Love's  commandments  have  thou  heed  to  keep. 


1  That  is,  according  to  early  Tuscan  nomenclature,  Carlo,  the  son  ^Messer  Guerra 
Cavicciuoli. 


246  Folgore  da  San  Gemiiiiano. 


TUESDAY. 
The  Day  of  Battles. 

To  a  new  world  on  Tuesday  shifts  my  song, 

Where  beat  of  drum  is  heard,  and  trumpet-blast; 

Where  footmen  armed  and  horsemen  armed  go  past, 
And  bells  say  ding  to  bells  that  answer  dong  ; 
Where  he  the  first  and  after  him  the  throng. 

Armed  all  of  them  with  coats  and  hoods  of  steel, 

Shall  see  their  foes  and  make  their  foes  to  feel, 
And  so  in  wrack  and  rout  drive  them  along. 
Then  hither,  thither,  dragging  on  the  field 

His  master,  empty-seated  goes  the  horse, 
'Mid  entrails  strown  abroad  of  soldiers  kill'd  ; 

Till  blow  to  camp  those  trumpeters  of  yours 
Who  noise  awhile  yonr  triumph  and  are  still'd, 

And  to  your  tents  you  come  back  conquerors. 


WEDNESDAY. 
The  Day  of  Feasts. 

And  every  Wednesday,  as  the  swift  days  move, 

Pheasant  and  peacock-shooting  out  of  doors 

You  '11  have,  and  multitude  of  hares  to  course. 
And  after  you  come  home,  good  cheer  enough  ; 
And  sweetest  ladies  at  the  board  above, 

Children  of  kings  and  counts  and  senators  ; 

And  comely-favored  youthful  bachelors 
To  serve  them,  bearing  garlands,  for  true  love. 

And  still  let  cups  of  gold  and  silver  ware, 
Runlets  of  vernage-wine  and  wine  of  Greece, 

Comfits  and  cakes  be  found  at  bidding  there; 
And  let  your  gifts  of  birds  and  game  increase: 

And  let  all  those  who  in  your  banquet  share 
Sit  with  bright  faces  perfectly  at  ease. 


Folgore  da  San  Geminiano.  247 


THURSDAY. 

The  Day  of  Jousts  and  Tournaments. 

For  Thursday  be  the  tournament  prepar'd, 
And  gentlemen  in  lordly  jousts  compete  : 
First  man  with  man,  together  let  them  meet, — 

By  fifties  and  by  hundreds  afterward. 

Let  arms  with  housings  each  be  fitly  pair'd, 
And  fitly  hold  your  battle  to  its  heat 
From  the  third  hour  to  vespers,  after  meat  ; 

Till  the  best-winded  be  at  last  declared. 

Then  back  unto  your  beauties,  as  ye  came  : 
Where  upon  sovereign  beds,  with  wise  control 
Of  leeches,  shall  your  hurts  be  swathed  in  bands. 
The  ladies  shall  assist  with  their  own  hands, 

And  each  be  so  well  paid  in  seeing  them 

That  on  the  morrow  he  be  sound  and  whole. 


FRIDAY. 
The  Day  of  Hunting. 

Let  Friday  be  your  highest  hunting-tide,  — 

No  hound  nor  brach  nor  mastiff  absent  thence,  — 
Through  a  low  w^ood,  by  many  miles  of  dens. 

All  covert,  where  the  cunning  beasts  abide  : 

Which  now  driven  forth,  at  first  you  scatter  wide, — 
Then  close  on  them,  and  rip  out  blood  and  breath  : 
Till  all  your  huntsmen's  horns  wind  at  the  death, 

And  you  count  up  how  many  beasts  have  died. 

Then,  men  and  dogs  together  brought,  you  '11  say  : 
Go  fairly  greet  from  us  this  friend  and  that, 
Bid  each  make  haste  to  blithest  wassailings. 
Might  not  one  vow  that  the  whole  pack  had  wings  .-* 
What  !  hither.  Beauty,  Dian,  Dragon,  what  ! 

I  think  we  held  a  royal  hunt  to-day. 


248  Folgore  da  Sail  Geminiano. 


SATURDAY. 

The  Day  of  Hawking. 

I  've  jolliest  merriment  for  Saturday  :  — 

The  very  choicest  ot  all  hawks  to  fly 

That  crane  or  heron  could  be  stricken  by, 
As  up  and  down  you  course  the  steep  highway. 
So  shall  the  wild  geese,  in  your  deadly  play, 

Lose  at  each  stroke  a  wing,  a  tail,  a  thigh  ; 

And  man  with  man  and  horse  with  horse  shall  vie, 
Till  you  all  shout  for  glory  and  holiday. 
Then,  going  home,  you  '11  closely  charge  the  cook  : 

"All  this  is  for  to-morrow's  roast  and  stew. 
Skin,  lop,  and  truss  :  hang  pots  on  every  hook. 

And  we  must  have  fine  wine  and  white  bread  too. 
Because  this  time  we  mean  to  feast  :  so  look 

We  do  not  think  your  kitchens  lost  on  you." 


SUNDAY. 
The  Day  of  Balls  and  Deeds  of  Arms  in  Flore?ice. 

And  on  the  morrow,  at  first  peep  o'  the  day 

Which  follows,  and  which  men  as  Sunday  spell,  - 

Whom  most  him  liketh,  dame  or  damozel, 
Your  chief  shall  choose  out  of  the  sweet  array. 
So  in  the  palace  painted  and  made  gay 

Shall  he  converse  with  her  whom  he  loves  best  ; 

And  what  he  wishes,  his  desire  express'd 
Shall  bring  to  presence  there,  without  gainsay. 
And  youths  shall  dance,  and  men  do  feats  of  arms, 

And  Florence  be  sought  out  on  every  side 
From  orchards  and  from  vineyards  and  from  farms 

That  they  who  fill  her  streets  from  far  and  wide 
In  your  fine  temper  may  discern  such  charms 

As  shall  from  day  to  day  be  magnified. 


Guido  delle  Coloiive.  249 


GUIDO   DELLE   COLONNE. 

Canzone. 

To  Love  and  to  his  Lady. 

0  Love,  who  all  this  while  hast  urged  me  on, 
Shaking  the  reins,  with  never  any  rest, — 
Slacken  for  pity  somewhat  of  thy  haste  ; 

1  am  oppress'd  with  languor  and  foredone,  — 
Having  outrun  the  power  of  sufferance,  — 

Having  much  more  endured  than  who,  through  faith 
That  his  heart  holds,  makes  no  account  of  death. 

Love  is  assuredly  a  fair  mischance, 

And  well  may  it  be  called  a  happy  ill  : 

Yet  thou,  my  lady,  on  this  constant  sting, 

So  sharp  a  thing,  have  thou  some  pity  still,  — 

Howbeit  a  sweet  thing  too,  unless  it  kill. 

0  comely-favored,  whose  soft  eyes  prevail, 
More  fair  than  is  another  on  this  ground,  — 
Lift  now  my  mournful  heart  out  of  its  stound, 

Which  thus  is  bound  for  thee  in  great  travail  : 
For  a  high  gale  a  little  rain  may  end. 

Also,  my  lady,  be  not  angered  thou 

That  Love  should  thee  enforce,  to  whom  all  bow. 
There  is  but  little  shame  to  apprehend 
If  to  a  higher  strength  the  conquest  be  ; 

And  all  the  more  to  Love  who  conquers  all. 
Why  then  appall  my  heart  with  doubts  of  thee? 
Courage  and  patience  triumph  certainly. 

1  do  not  say  that  with  such  loveliness 

Such  pride  may  not  beseem  ;  it  suits  thee  well  ; 
For  in  a  lovely  lady  pride  may  dwell, 
Lest  homage  fail  and  high  esteem  grow  less  : 


250  Gì  ido  delle  Colonne. 


Yet  pride's  excess  is  not  a  thing  to  praise. 
Therefore,  my  lady,  let  thy  harshness  gain 
Some  touch  of  pity  which  may  still  restrain 

Thy  hand,  ere  Death  cut  short  these  hours  and  days. 

The  sun  is  very  high  and  full  of  light. 

And  the  more  bright  the  higher  he  doth  ride  : 

So  let  thy  pride,  my  lady,  and  thy  height, 

Stand  me  in  stead  and  turn  to  my  delight. 

Still  inmostly  I  love  thee,  laboring  still 

That  others  may  not  know  my  secret  smart. 

Oh  !  what  a  pain  it  is  for  the  grieved  heart 
To  hold  apart  and  not  to  show  its  ill  ! 
Yet  by  no  will  the  face  can  hide  the  soul  ; 

And  ever  with  the  eyes  the  heart  has  need 

To  be  in  all  things  willingly  agreed. 
It  were  a  mighty  strength  that  should  control 
The  heart's  fierce  beat,  and  never  speak  a  word  : 

It  were  a  mighty  strength,  I  say  again, 
To  hide  such  pain,  and  to  be  sovran  lord 
Of  any  heart  that  had  such  love  to  hoard. 

For  Love  can  make  the  wisest  turn  astray  ; 

Love,  at  its  most,  of  measure  still  has  least  ; 

He  is  the  maddest  man  who  loves  the  best  ; 
It  is  Love's  jest,  to  make  men's  hearts  alway 
So  hot  that  they  by  coldness  cannot  cool. 

The  eyes  unto  the  heart  bear  messages 

Of  the  beginnings  of  all  pain  and  ease  : 
And  thou,  my  lady,  in  thy  hand  dost  rule 
Mine  eyes  and  heart  which  thou  hast  made  thine  own. 

Love  rocks  my  life  with  tempests  on  the  deep,  ' 
Even  as  a  ship  round  which  the  winds  are  blown  : 
Thou  art  my  pennon  that  will  not  go  down. 


Pier  Moronelli.  25 


PIER   MORONELLI,   DI   FIORENZA. 

Canzonetta. 

A  bitter  Song  to  his  Lady. 

O  LADY  amorous, 

Merciless  lady, 

Full  blithely  play'd  ye 

These  your  beguilings. 

So  with  an  urchin 

A  man  makes  merry,  — 

In  mirth  grows  clamorous, 

Laughs  and  rejoices,  — 

But  when  his  choice  is 

To  fall  aweary, 

Cheats  him  with  silence. 

This  is  Love's  portion  :  — 

In  much  wayfaring 

With  many  burdens 

He  loads  his  servants. 

But  at  the  sharing. 

The  underservice 

And  overservice 

Are  alike  barren. 


As  my  disaster 
Your  jest  I  cherish, 
And  well  may  perish. 
Even  so  a  falcon 
Is  sometimes  taken 
And  scantly  cautell'd  ; 
Till  when  his  master 
At  length  to  loose  him, 
To  train  and  use  him, 
Is  after  all  gone, — 
The  creature  's  throttled 


252  Pier  Moronelli. 


And  will  not  waken. 
Wherefore,  my  lady. 
If  you  will  own  me, 
O  look  upon  me  ! 
If  I  'm  not  thought  on, 
At  least  perceive  me  ! 

0  do  not  leave  me 
So  much  forgotten  ! 

If,  lady,  truly, 
You  wish  my  profit, 
What  follows  of  it 
Though  still  you  say  so  ?  - 
For  all  your  well-wishes 
/  still  am  waiting. 

1  grow  unruly, 

And  deem  at  last  I  'm 
Only  your  pastime. 
A  child  will  play  so. 
Who  greatly  relishes 
Sporting  and  petting 
With  a  little  wild  bird  : 
Unaware  he  kills  it,  — 
Then  turns  it,  feels  it, 
Calls  it  with  a  mild  word, 
Is  angry  after,  — 
Then  again  in  laughter 
Loud  is  the  child  heard. 

O  my  delightful 
My  own  my  lady, 
Upon  the  Mayday 
Which  brought  me  to  you 
Was  all  my  haste  then 
But  a  fool's  venture  ? 
To  have  my  sight  full 
Of  you  propitious 
Truly  my  wish  was. 
And  to  pursue  you 
And  let  love  chasten 
My  heart  to  the  centre. 
But  warming,  lady, 
May  end  in  burning. 
Of  all  this  yearning 
What  comes,  I  beg  you  ? 
In  all  your  glances 
What  is  't  a  man  sees  ?  — 
Fever  and  agvie. 


Ciuncio  Fiorentino.  253 


CIUNCIO   FIORENTINO. 


Canzone. 

Of  his  Love;  with  the  Figtires  of  a  Stag,  of  Water  ^  and 
of  a?t  Eagle. 

Lady,  with  all  the  pains  that  I  can  take, 
I  '11  sing  my  love  renewed,  if  I  may,  well, 

And  only  in  your  praise. 
The  stag  in  his  old  age  seeks  out  a  snake 

And  eats  it,  and  then  drinks  (I  have  heard  tell), 

Fearing  the  hidden  ways 
Of  the  snake's  poison,  and  renews  his  youth. 

Even  such  a  draught,  in  truth. 
Was  your  sweet  welcome,  which  cast  out  of  me, 

With  whole  cure  instantly. 
Whatever  pain  I  felt,  for  my  own  good. 
When  first  we  met  that  I  might  be  renew'd. 

A  thing  that  has  its  proper  essence  changed 
By  virtue  of  some  powerful  influence, 

As  water  has  by  fire, 
Returns  to  be  itself,  no  more  estranged, 

So  soon  as  that  has  ceased  which  gave  offence  : 

Yea,  now  will  more  aspire 
Than  ever,  as  the  thing  it  first  was  made. 

Thine  advent  long  delay'd 
Even  thus  had  almost  worn  me  out  of  love, 

Biding  so  far  above  : 
But  now  that  thou  hast  brought  love  back  for  me. 
It  mounts  too  much,  —  O  lady,  up  to  thee. 


I  have  heard  tell,  and  can  esteem  it  true, 
How  that  an  eagle  looking  on  the  sun, 
Rejoicing  for  his  part 


254  Ciuncio  Fiorentino, 


And  bringing  oft  his  young  to  look  there  too, 
If  one  gaze  longer  than  another  one, 

On  him  will  set  his  heart. 
So  I  am  made  aware  that  Love  doth  lead 

All  lovers,  by  their  need. 
To  gaze  upon  the  brightness  of  their  loves  ; 

And  whosoever  moves 
His  eyes  the  least  from  gazing  upon  her. 
The  same  shall  be  Love's  inward  minister. 


Ruggieri  di  Amici,  255 


RUGGIERI   DI   AMICI,   SICILIANO. 

Canzonetta. 
For  a  Renewal  of  Favors. 

I  PLAY  this  sweet  prelùde 

For  the  best  heart,  and  queen 
Of  gentle  womanhood, 

From  here  unto  Messene; 
Of  flowers  the  fairest  one  ; 
The  star  that 's  next  the  sun  ; 

The  brightest  star  of  all. 
What  time  I  look  at  her. 
My  thoughts  do  crowd  and  stir 

And  are  made  musical. 

Sweetest  my  lady,  then 

Wilt  thou  not  just  permit, 
As  once  I  spoke,  again 

That  I  should  speak  of  it  .-* 
My  heart  is  burning  me 
Within,  though  outwardly 

I  seem  so  brave  and  gay. 
Ah  !  dost  thou  not  sometimes 
Remember  the  sweet  rhymes 

Our  lips  made  on  that  day  ?  — 

When  I  her  heart  did  move 

By  kisses  and  by  vows. 
Whom  I  then  called  my  love. 

Fair-haired,  with  silver  brows  : 
She  sang  there  as  we  sat; 
Nor  then  withheld  she  aught 

Which  it  were  right  to  give; 
But  said,  "  Indeed  I  will 
Be  thine  through  good  and  ill 

As  long  as  I  may  live." 


•56  Ruggieri  di  Amici. 

And  while  I  live,  dear  love, 

In  gladness  and  in  need 
Myself  I  will  approve 

To  be  thine  own  indeed. 
If  any  man  dare  blame 
Our  loves,  —  bring  him  to  shame, 

O  God  !  and  of  this  year 
Let  him  not  see  the  May. 
Is  't  not  a  vile  thing,  say. 

To  freeze  at  Midsummer  ì 


Camino  G /liberti.  257 


CARNINO   GHIBERTI,   DA   FIORENZA. 

Canzone. 

Being  absent  from  his  Lady,  he  fears  Death. 

I  AM  afar,  but  near  thee  is  my  heart 
Only  soHciting 
That  this  long  absence  seem  not  ill  to  thee  : 
For,  if  thou  knew'st  what  pain  and  evil  smart 

The  lack  of  thy  sweet  countenance  can  bring, 
Thou  wouldst  remember  me  compassionately. 
Even  as  my  case,  the  stag's  is  wont  to  be, 
Which,  thinking  to  escape 
His  death,  escaping  whence  the  pack  gives  cry, 

Is  wounded  and  doth  die. 
So,  in  my  spirit  imagining  thy  shape, 

I  would  fly  Death,  and  Death  o'ermasters  me. 

I  am  o'erpower'd  of  Death  when,  telling  o'er 
Thy  beauties  in  my  thought, 
I  seem  to  have  that  which  I  have  not  :  then 
I  am  as  he  who  in  each  meteor, 
Dazzled  and  wildered,  sees  the  thing  he  sought. 
In  suchwise  Love  deals  with  me  among  men  :  — 
Thee  whom  I  have  not,  yet  who  dost  sustain 
My  life,  he  bringeth  in  his  arms  to  me 
Full  oft,  —  yet  I  approach  not  unto  thee. 
Ah  !  if  we  be  not  joined  i'  the  very  flesh, 
It  cannot  last  but  I  indeed  shall  die 

By  burden  of  this  love  that  weigheth  so. 
As  an  o'erladen  bough,  while  yet  't  is  fresh, 
Breaks,  and  itself  and  fruit  are  lost  thereby,  — 
So  shall  I,  love,  be  lost,  alas  for  woe  ! 
And,  if  this  slay  indeed  that  thus  doth  rive 
My  heart,  how  then  shall  I  comforted  ? 
Thou,  as  a  lioness 
Her  cub,  in  sore  distress 
Might'st  toil  to  bring  me  out  of  death  alive  : 
But  couldst  thou  raise  me  up,  if  I  were  dead  ,'* 


258  Camino  Ghiberti. 


Oh  !  but  an'  if  thou  wouldst,  I  were  more  glad 
Of  death  than  life,  — thus  kept 
From  thee  and  the  true  life  thy  face  can  bring. 
So  in  nowise  could  death  be  harsh  or  bad  ; 
But  it  should  seem  to  me  that  I  had  slept 
And  was  awakened  with  thy  summoning. 
Yet,  sith  the  hope  thereof  is  a  vain  thing, 
I,  in  fast  fealty, 
Can  like  the  Assassin  ^  be. 
Who,  to  be  subject  to  his  lord  in  all. 

Goes  and  accepts  his  death  and  has  no  heed  : 
Even  as  he  doth  so  could  I  do  indeed. 
Nevertheless,  this  one  memorial  — 
The  last  —  I  send  thee,  for  Love  orders  it. 
He,  this  last  once,  wills  that  thus  much  be  writ 
In  prayer  that  it  may  fall  'twixt  thee  and  me 
After  the  manner  of 
Two  birds  that  feast  their  love 
Even  unto  anguish,  till,  if  neither  quit 
The  other,  one  must  perish  utterly. 

1  Alluding  to  the  Syrian  tribe  of  Assassins,  whose  chief  was  the  Old  Man  of  the 
Mountain. 


Priìirjivalle  Doria.  2$g 


PRINZIVALLE   BORIA. 

Canzone. 
Of  his  Love,  with  the  Figure  of  a  sudden  Storm, 

Even  as  the  day  when  it  is  yet  at  dawning 
Seems  mild  and  kind,  being  fair  to  look  upon, 

While  the  birds  carol  underneath  their  awning 
Of  leaves,  as  if  they  never  would  have  have  done  ; 
Which  on  a  sudden  changes,  just  at  noon, 

And  the  broad  light  is  broken  into  rain 
That  stops  and  comes  again  ; 

Even  as  the  traveller,  who  had  held  his  way 

Hopeful  and  glad  because  of  the  bright  weather, 
Forgetteth  then  his  gladness  altogether  ; 

Even  so  am  I ,  through  Love,  alas  the  day  ! 

It  plainly  is  through  Love  that  I  am  so. 

At  first,  he  let  me  still  grow  happier 
Each  day,  and  made  her  kindness  seem  to  grow  ; 

But  now  he  has  quite  changed  her  heart  in  her. 

And  I,  whose  hopes  throbbed  and  were  all  astir 
For  times  when  I  should  call  her  mine  aloud, 

And  in  her  pride  be  proud 
Who  is  more  fair  than  gems  are,  ye  may  say, 

Having  that  fairness  which  holds  hearts  in  rule  — 

I  have  learnt  now  to  count  him  but  a  fool 
Who  before  evening  says,  A  goodly  day. 

It  had  been  better  not  to  have  begun. 

Since,  having  known  my  error,  't  is  too  late. 
This  thing  from  which  I  suffer,  thou  hast  done, 

Lady  :  canst  thou  restore  me  my  first  state  ? 

The  wound  thou  gavest  canst  thou  medicate  ? 
Not  thou,  forsooth  :  thou  hast  not  any  art 

To  keep  death  from  my  heart. 


26o  Prhizivalle  Daria. 

0  lady  !  where  is  now  my  life's  full  meed 

Of  peace,  —  mine  once,  and  which  thou  took'st  away  ? 
Surely  it  cannot  now  be  far  from  day  : 
Night  is  already  very  long  indeed. 

The  sea  is  much  more  beautiful  at  rest 

Than  when  the  storm  is  trampling  over  it. 
Wherefore,  to  see  the  smile  which  has  so  bless'd 

This  heart  of  mine,  deem'st  thou  these  eyes  unfit? 

There  is  no  maid  so  lovely,  it  is  writ. 
That  by  such  stern  unwomanly  regard 

Her  face  may  not  be  marr'd. 

1  therefore  pray  of  thee,  my  own  soul's  wife, 
That  thou  remember  me  who  am  forgot. 

How  shall  I  stand  without  thee.''     Art  thou  not 
The  pillar  of  the  building  of  my  life  ì 


Rustico  di  Filippo.  261 


RUSTICO   DI   FILIPPO. 


Sonnet. 
0/  the  jnakiftg  of  Master  Mes serin. 

When  God  had  finished  Master  Messerin, 
He  really  thought  it  something  to  have  done  : 
Bird,  man,  and  beast  had  got  a  chance  in  one, 

And  each  felt  flattered,  it  was  hoped,  therein. 

For  he  is  like  a  goose  i'  the  windpipe  thin, 
And  like  a  cameleopard  high  i'  the  loins  ; 
To  which,  for  manhood,  you  '11  be  told,  he  joins 

Some  kinds  of  flesh-hues  and  a  callow  chin. 

As  to  his  singing,  he  affects  the  crow  ; 
As  to  his  learning,  beasts  in  general  ; 

And  sets  all  square  by  dressing  like  a  man. 

God  made  him,  having  nothing  else  to  do  : 
And  proved  there  is  not  anything  at  all 
He  cannot  make,  if  that 's  a  thing  He  can. 

II. 

Sonnet. 
Of  the  Safety  of  M esser  Fazio} 

Master  Bertuccio,  you  are  called  to  account 
That  you  guard  Fazio's  life  from  poison  ill  : 
And  every  man  in  Florence  tells  me  still 

He  has  no  horse  that  he  can  safely  mount. 

A  mighty  war-horse  worth  a  thousand  pound 
Stands  in  Cremona  stabled  at  his  will; 
Which  for  his  honored  person  should  fulfil 

1  I  have  not  been  able  to  trace  the  Fazio  to  whom  this  sonnet  refers. 


202  Rustico  di  Filippo. 

Its  use.     Nay,  sir,  I  pray  you  be  not  found 
So  poor  a  steward.     For  all  fame  of  yours 
Is  cared  for  best,  believe  me,  when  I  say  :  — 
Our  Florence  gives  Bertuccio  charge  of  one 
Who  rides  her  own  proud  spirit  like  a  horse  ; 
Whom  Gocciolo  himself  must  needs  obey  : 

And  whom  she  loves  best,  being  her  strongest  son. 


III. 

Sonnet. 
Of  M esser  Ugolino.'^ 

If  any  one  had  anything  to  say 

To  the  Lord  Ugolino,  because  he  's 

Not  stanch,  and  never  minds  his  promises, 
'T  were  hardly  courteous,  for  it  is  his  way. 
Courteous  it  were  to  say  such  sayings  nay  : 

As  thus  :  He  's  true,  sir,  only  takes  his  ease 

And  don't  care  merely  if  it  plague  or  please. 
And  has  good  thoughts,  no  doubt,  if  they  would  stay. 
Now  I  know  he  's  so  loyal  every  whit 

And  altogether  worth  such  a  good  word 
As  worst  would  best  and  best  would  worst  befit. 

He  'd  love  his  party  with  a  dear  accord 
If  only  he  could  once  quite  care  for  it, 

But  can't  run  post  for  any  Law  or  Lord. 

'  The  character  here  drawn  certainly  suggests  Count  Ugolino  de'  Gherardeschi, 
though  it  would  seem  that  Rustico  died  nearly  twenty  years  before  the  tragedy  of  the 
Tower  of  Famine. 


Pucciarello  di  Fiorenza.  263 


PUCCIARELLO   DI   FIORENZA. 

Sonnet. 
Of  Expediency . 

Pass  and  let  pass,  —  this  counsel  I  would  give,  — 
And  wrap  thy  cloak  what  way  the  wind  may  blow; 
Who  cannot  raise  himself  were  wise  to  know 

How  best,  by  dint  of  stooping,  he  may  thrive. 

Take  for  ensample  this  :  when  the  winds  drive 
Against  it,  how  the  sapling  tree  bends  low, 
And,  once  being  prone,  abideth  even  so 

Till  the  hard  harsh  wind  cease  to  rend  and  rive. 

Wherefore,  when  thou  behold'st  thyself  abased, 
Be  bHnd,  deaf,  dumb;  yet  therewith  none  the  less 
Note  thou  in  peace  what  thou  shalt  hear  and  see. 

Till  from  such  state  by  Fortune  thou  be  raised. 
Then  hack,  lop,  buffet,  thrust,  and  so  redress 
Thine  ill  that  it  may  not  return  on  thee. 


204  A /bertuccio  della  Viola. 


ALBERTUCCIO   DELLA  VIOLA. 

Canzone. 

Of  his  Lady  dancing. 

Among  the  dancers  I  beheld  her  dance, 
Her  who  alone  is  my  heart's  sustenance. 

So,  as  she  danced,  I  took  this  wound  of  her  ; 

Alas  !  the  flower  of  flowers,  she  did  not  fail. 
Woe  's  me  !  I  will  be  Jew  and  blasphemer 

If  the  good  god  of  Love  do  not  prevail 
To  bring  me  to  thy  grace,  oh  !  thou  most  fair. 

My  lady  and  my  lord  !  alas  for  wail  ! 
How  many  days  and  how  much  sufferance  ? 

Oh  !  would  to  God  that  I  had  never  seen 
Her  face,  nor  had  beheld  her  dancing  so  ! 

Then  had  I  missed  this  wound  which  is  so  keen  — 
Yea,  mortal  —  for  I  think  not  to  win  through 

Unless  her  love  be  my  sweet  medicine  ;        ^ 
Whereof  I  am  in  doubt,  alas  for  woe  ! 

Fearing  therein  but  such  a  little  chance. 

She  was  apparelled  in  a  Syrian  cloth, 

My  lady  :  —  oh  !  but  she  did  grace  the  same. 

Gladdening  all  folk,  that  they  were  nowise  loath 
At  sight  of  her  to  put  their  ills  from  them. 

But  upon  me  her  power  hath  had  such  growth 
That  nought  of  joy  thenceforth,  but  a  live  flame. 

Stirs  at  my  heart,  —  which  is  her  countenance. 

Sweet-smelling  rose,  sweet,  sweet  to  smell  and  see, 
Great  solace  had  she  in  her  eyes  for  all  ; 

But  heavy  woe  is  mine  ;  for  upon  me 

Her  eyes,  as  they  were  wont,  did  never  fall. 

Which  thing  if  it  were  done  advisedly, 

I  would  choose  death,  that  could  no  more  appall, 

Not  caring  for  my  life's  continuance. 


Tommaso  Biczzuola.  265 


TOMMASO   BUZZUOLA,   DA   FAENZA. 

Sonnet.  ' 

He  is  in  awe  of  his  Lady. 

Even  as  the  moon  amid  the  stars  doth  shed 

Her  lovelier  splendor  of  exceeding  light,  — 
Even  so  my  lady  seems  the  queen  and  head 

Among  all  other  ladies  in  my  sight. 
Her  human  visage,  like  an  angel's  made. 

Is  glorious  even  to  beauty's  perfect  height  ; 
And  with  her  simple  bearing  soft  and  staid 

All  secret  modesties  of  soul  unite. 
I  therefore  feel  a  dread  in  loving  her  ; 

Because  of  thinking  on  her  excellence, 

The  wisdom  and  the  beauty  which  she  has. 
I  pray  her  for  the  sake  of  God,  — whereas 

I  am  her  servant,  yet  in  sore  suspense 
Have  held  my  peace,  —  to  have  me  in  her  care. 


266  Noffo  Bo7taguida. 


NOFFO   BONAGUIDA. 

Sonnet. 
He  is  enjoined  to  pure  Love. 

A  SPIRIT  of  Love,  with  Love's  intelligence, 
Maketh  his  sojourn  alway  in  my  breast, 
Maintaining  me  in  perfect  joy  and  rest  ; 

Nor  could  I  live  an  hour,  were  he  gone  thence  : 

Through  whom  my  love  hath  such  full  permanence 
That  thereby  other  loves  seem  dispossess'd. 
I  have  no  pain,  nor  am  with  sighs  oppress'd, 

So  calm  is  the  benignant  influence. 

Because  this  spirit  of  Love,  who  speaks  to  me 
Of  my  dear  lady's  tenderness  and  worth, 

Says  :  "  More  than  thus  to  love  her  seek  thou  not 
Even  as  she  loves  thee  in  her  wedded  thought  ; 

But  honor  her  in  thy  heart  delicately  : 

For  this  is  the  most  blessed  joy  on  earth." 


Lippo  Paschi  de  Bardi,  26'J 


LIPPO   PASCHI    DE'    BARDI. 

Sonnet. 
He  solicits  a  Lady's  Favors. 

Wert  thou  as  prone  to  yield  unto  my  prayer 

The  thing,  sweet  virgin,  which  I  ask  of  thee, 

As  to  repeat,  with  all  humility, 
"  Pray  you  go  hence,  and  of  your  speech  forbear 
Then  unto  joy  might  I  my  heart  prepare, 

Having  my  fellows  in  subserviency  ; 

But,  for  that  thou  contemn'st  and  mockest  me. 
Whether  of  life  or  death  I  take  no  care. 
Because  my  heart  may  not  assuage  its  drouth 

Nor  ever  may  again  rejoice  at  all 

Till  the  sweet  face  bend  to  be  felt  of  man,  — 
Till  tenderly  the  beautiful  soft  mouth 

I  kiss  by  thy  good  leave  ;  thenceforth  to  call 
Blessing  and  triumph  Love's  extremest  ban. 


»68  Ser  Pace,  Notaio  da  Fiorenza. 


SER   PACE,   NOTAIO   DA   FIORENZA. 

Sonnet. 
A  Return  to  Love. 

A  FRESH  content  of  fresh  enamouring 

Yields  me  afresh,  at  length,  the  sense  of  song, 
Who  had  well-nigh  forgotten  Love  so  long  : 

But  now  my  homage  he  will  have  me  bring. 

So  that  my  life  is  now  a  joyful  thing, 

Having  new-found  desire,  elate  and  strong, 
In  her  to  whom  all  grace  and  worth  belong, 

On  whom  I  now  attend  for  ministering. 

The  countenance  remembering,  with  the  limbs. 
She  was  all  imaged  on  my  heart  at  once 
Suddenly  by  a  single  look  at  her  : 

Whom  when  I  now  behold,  a  heat  there  seems 
Within,  as  of  a  subtle  fire  that  runs 

Unto  my  heart,  and  remains  burning  there. 


Niccolò  degli  A  Ibis  si.  269 


NICCOLO    DEGLI    ALBIZZI. 

Prolonged  Sonnet. 
When  the  Troops  were  retitrni?tgfrom  Milan. 

If  you  could  see,  fair  brother,  how  dead  beat 

The  fellows  look  who  come  through  Rome  to-day,  — 

Black  yellow  smoke-dried  visages,  —  you  'd  say 
They  thought  their  haste  at  going  all  too  fleet. 
Their  empty  victual-wagons  up  the  street 

Over  the  bridge  dreadfully  sound  and  sway  ; 

Their  eyes,  as  hanged  men's,  turning  the  wrong  way  ; 
And  nothing  on  their  backs,  or  heads,  or  feet. 
One  sees  the  ribs  and  all  the  skeletons 

Of  their  gaunt  horses  ;  and  a  sorry  sight 
Are  the  torn  saddles,  crammed  with  straw  and  stones. 

They  are  ashamed,  and  march  throughout  the  night  ; 
Stumbling,  for  hunger,  on  their  marrowbones  ; 

Like  barrels  rolling,  jolting,  in  this  plight. 
Their  arms  all  gone,  not  even  their  swords  are  saved  ; 
And  each  as  silent  as  a  man  being  shaved. 


I/o  Francesco  da  Barberino. 


FRANCESCO   DA   BARBERINO. 

I. 

Blank  Verse.i 

A  Virgin  declares  her  Beauties. 

Do  not  conceive  that  I  shall  here  recount 
All  my  own  beauty  :  yet  I  promise  you 
That  you,  by  what  I  tell,  shall  understand 
All  that  befits  and  that  is  well  to  know. 

My  bosom,  which  is  very  softly  made, 

Of  a  white  even  color  without  stain. 

Bears  two  fair  apples,  fragrant,  sweetly-savored, 

Gathered  together  from  the  Tree  of  Life 

The  which  is  in  the  midst  of  Paradise. 

And  these  no  person  ever  yet  has  touched  ; 

For  out  of  nurse's  and  of  mother's  hands 

I  was,  when  God  in  secret  gave  them  me. 

These  ere  I  yield  I  must  know  well  to  whom  ; 

And  for  that  I  would  not  be  robbed  of  them, 

I  speak  not  all  the  virtue  that  they  have  ; 

Yet  thus  far  speaking:  — blessed  were  the  man 

Who  once  should  touch  them,  were  it  but  a  little  ;  — 

See  them  I  say  not,  for  that  might  not  be. 

My  girdle,  clipping  pleasure  round  about, 

Over  my  clear  dress  even  unto  my  knees 

Hangs  down  with  sweet  precision  tenderly  ; 

And  under  it  Virginity  abides. 

Faithful  and  simple  and  of  plain  belief 

She  is,  with  her  fair  garland  bright  like  gold  ; 

And  very  fearful  if  she  overhears 

Speech  of  herself;  the  wherefore  ye  perceive 

That  I  speak  soft  lest  she  be  made  ashamed. 

^  Extracted  from  his  long:  treatise,  in  unrhvmed  verse  and  in  prose.  "Of  the  Gov- 
ernment and  Conduct  of  Women  "  {Del  Reggimento  e  dei  Costmni  delle  Donne). 


Francesco  da  Barberino.  271 

Lo  !  this  is  she  who  hath  for  company 
The  Son  of  God  and  Mother  of  the  Son  ; 
Lo  !  this  is  she  who  sits  with  many  in  heaven  ; 
Lo  !  this  is  she  with  whom  are  few  on  earth. 


IL 

Sentenze. 1 
0/  Sloth  against  Sin. 

There  is  a  vice  which  oft 

l 've  heard  men  praise  ;  and  divers  forms  it  has  ; 

And  it  is  this.     Whereas 
Some,  by  their  wisdom,  lordship,  or  repute, 

When  tumults  are  afoot, 

Might  stifle  them,  or  at  the  least  allay, — 

These  certain  ones  will  say, 
'•  The  wise  man  bids  thee  fly  the  noise  of  men." 

One  says,  "  Wouldst  thou  maintain 

Worship,  — avoid  where  thou  mayst  not  avail; 
And  do  not  breed  worse  ail 

By  adding  one  more  voice  to  strife  begun." 

Another,  with  this  one, 

Avers,  "  I  could  but  bear  a  small  expense, 

Or  yield  a  slight  defence." 
A  third  says  this,  "  I  could  but  offer  words." 

Or  one,  whose  tongue  records 

Unwillingly  his  own  base  heart,  will  say, 
"  I  '11  not  be  led  astray 

To  bear  a  hand  in  others'  life  or  death." 

They  have  it  in  their  teeth  ! 

For  unto  this  each  man  is  pledged  and  bound; 

And  this  thing  shall  be  found 
Entered  against  him  at  the  Judgment  Day. 

1  This  and  the  three  following  pieces  are  extracted  from  his  "  Documents  of  Love  " 
{Documenti  cf  A  more). 


272  Fra7icesco  da  Barberino. 

III. 

Sentenze. 

Of  Sins  in  Speech. 

Now  these  four  things,  if  thou 

Consider,  are  so  bad  that  none  are  worse. 
First,  —  among  counsellors 

To  thrust  thyself,  when  not  called  absolutely. 

And  in  the  other  three 

Many  offend  by  their  own  evil  wit. 

When  men  in  council  sit. 
One  talks  because  he  loves  not  to  be  still  ; 


And  one  to  have  his  will  ; 

And  one  for  nothing  else  but  only  show. 

These  rules  were  well  to  know, 
First  for  the  first,  for  the  others  afterward. 

Where  many  are  repair'd 

And  met  together,  never  go  with  them 

Unless  thou  'rt  called  by  name. 
This  for  the  first  :  now  for  the  other  three. 

What  truly  thou  dost  see 

Turn  in  thy  mind,  and  faithfully  report  ; 

And  in  the  plainest  sort 
Thy  wisdom  may,  proffer  thy  counselling. 

There  is  another  thing 

Belongs  hereto,  the  which  is  on  this  wise. 

If  one  should  ask  advice 
Of  thine  for  his  own  need  whate'er  it  be,  — 

This  is  my  word  to  thee  :  — 

Deny  it  if  it  be  not  clearly  of  use  : 
Or  turn  to  some  excuse 

That  may  avail,  and  thou  shalt  have  done  well. 


Francesco  da  Barberino.  273 

IV. 

Sentenze. 
Of  Importtinities  afid  Troiiblesovie  Persons. 

There  is  a  vice  prevails 

Concerning  which  I  '11  set  you  on  your  guard  ; 

And  other  four,  which  hard 
It  were  (as  may  be  thought)  that  I  should  blame. 

Some  think  that  still  of  them  — 

Whate'er  is  said  —  some  ill  speech  lies  beneath  ; 

And  this  to  them  is  death  : 
Whereby  we  plainly  may  perceive  their  sins. 

And  now  let  others  wince. 

One  sort  there  is,  who,  thinking  that  they  please 

(Because  no  wit 's  in  these). 
Where'er  you  go,  will  stick  to  you  all  day, 

And  answer,  (when  you  say, 

"  Don't  let  me  tire  you  out  !  ")  *'  Oh  never  mind,  — 

Say  nothing  of  the  kind,  — 
It 's  quite  a  pleasure  to  be  where  you  are  !  " 

A  second,  —  when,  as  far 

As  he  could  follow  you,  the  whole  day  long 

He  's  sung  you  his  dull  song. 
And  you  for  courtesy  have  borne  with  it,  — 

Will  think  you  've  had  a  treat. 

A  third  will  take  his  special  snug  delight,  — 

Some  day  you  've  come  in  sight 
Of  some  great  thought  and  got  it  well  in  view, — 

Just  then  to  drop  on  you. 

A  fourth,  for  any  insult  you  've  received 

Will  say  he  is  so  grieved. 
And  daily  bring  the  subject  up  again. 

So  now  I  would  be  fain 

To  show  you  your  best  course  at  all  such  times  ; 

And  counsel  you  in  rhymes 
That  you  yourself  offend  not  in  likewise. 
18 


274  Frajicesco  da  Barberina. 

In  these  four  cases  lies 

This  help  :  —  to  think  upon  your  own  affair, 

Just  showing  here  and  there 
By  just  a  word  that  you  are  listening  ; 

And  still  to  the  last  thing 

That 's  said  to  you  attend  in  your  reply, 

And  let  the  rest  go  by,  — 
It 's  quite  a  chance  if  he  remembers  them. 

Yet  do  not,  all  the  same, 

Deny  your  ear  to  any  speech  of  weight. 

But  if  importunate 
The  speaker  is,  and  will  not  be  denied, 

Just  turn  the  speech  aside 

When  you  can  find  some  plausible  pretence  ; 

For  if  you  have  the  sense, 
By  a  quick  question  or  a  sudden  doubt 

You  may  so  put  him  out 

That  he  shall  not  remember  where  he  was, 

And  by  such  means  you  '11  pass 
Upon  your  way  and  be  well  rid  of  him. 

And  now  it  may  beseem 

I  give  you  the  advice  I  promised  you. 

Before  you  have  to  do 
With  men  whom  you  must  meet  continually, 

Take  notice  what  they  be  ; 

And  so  you  shall  find  readily  enough 

If  you  can  win  their  love, 
And  give  yourself  for  answer  Yes  or  No. 

And  finding  Yes,  do  so 

That  still  the  love  between  you  may  increase. 

Yet  if  they  be  of  these 
Whom  sometimes  it  is  hard  to  understand, 

Let  some  slight  cause  be  plann'd, 

And  seem  to  go,  —  so  you  shall  learn  their  will  : 

And  if  but  one  sit  still 
As  'twere  in  thought,  —  then  go,  unless  he  call. 

Lastly,  if  insult  gall 

Your  friend,  this  is  the  course  that  you  should  take. 

At  first  't  is  well  you  make 
As  much  lament  thereof  as  you  think  fit,  — 


Fratte  esco  da  Barberino.  275 

Then  speak  no  more  of  it, 

Unless  himself  should  bring  it  up  again  ; 

And  then  no  more  refrain 
From  full  discourse,  but  say  his  grief  is  yours. 


V. 

Sentenze. 

Of  Caution. 

Say,  wouldst  thou  guard  thy  son. 
That  sorrow  he  may  shun  ? 
Begin  at  the  beginning 
And  let  him  keep  from  sinning. 
Wouldst  guard  thy  house  .''     One  door 
Make  to  it,  and  no  more. 
Wouldst  guard  thine  orchard-wall  ? 
Be  free  of  fruit  to  all. 


276  Fazio  degli  liberti. 


FAZIO   DEGLI   UBERTI. 


Canzone. 
His  Port7'ait  of  his  Lady,  Angiola  of  Verona, 

I  LOOK  at  the  crisp  golden-threaded  hair 

Whereof,  to  thrall  my  heart,  Love  twists  a  net: 

Using  at  times  a  string  of  pearls  for  bait. 
And  sometimes  with  a  single  rose  therein. 
I  look  into  her  eyes  which  unaware 

Through  mine  own  eyes  to  my  heart  penetrate  ; 

Their  splendor,  that  is  excellently  great. 
To  the  sun's  radiance  seeming  near  akin, 
Yet  from  herself  a  sweeter  light  to  win. 
So  that  I,  gazing  on  that  lovely  one, 

Discourse  in  this  wise  with  my  secret  thought  :  — 

"  Woe  's  me  !  why  am  I  not. 
Even  as  my  wish,  alone  with  her  alone, — 

That  hair  of  hers,  so  heavily  uplaid, 

To  shed  down  braid  by  braid, 
And  make  myself^two  mirrors  of  her  eyes 
Within  whose  light  all  other  glory  dies  .''  " 

I  look  at  the  amorous  beautiful  mouth, 

The  spacious  forehead  which  her  locks  enclose, 
The  small  white  teeth,  the  straight  and  shapely  nose, 
And  the  clear  brows  of  a  sweet  pencilling. 
And  then  the  thought  within  me  gains  full  growth, 
Saying,  "  Be  careful  that  thy  glance  now  goes 
Between  her  lips,  red  as  an  open  rose. 

Quite  full  of  every  dear  and  precious  thing; 
And  listen  to  her  gracious  answering. 
Born  of  the  gentle  mind  that  in  her  dwells, 

Which  from  all  things  can  glean  the  nobler  half. 
Look  thou  when  she  doth  laugh 


Fazio  degli  liberti.  277 

How  much  her  laugh  is  sweeter  than  aught  else." 

Thus  evermore  my  spirit  makes  a  vow 

Touching  her  mouth  ;  till  now 
I  would  give  anything  that  I  possess, 
Only  to  hear  her  mouth  say  frankly,  "  Yes." 

I  look  at  her  white  easy  neck,  so  well 

From  shoulders  and  from  bosom  lifted  out  ; 

And  at  her  round  cleft  chin,  which  beyond  doubt 
No  fancy  in  the  world  could  have  design'd. 
And  then,  with  longing  grown  more  voluble, 

"  Were  it  not  pleasant  now,"  pursues  my  thought, 

"  To  have  that  neck  within  thy  two  arms  caught 
And  kiss  it  till  the  mark  were  left  behind  ?  " 
Then,  urgently  :  "  The  eyelids  of  thy  mind 
Open  thou  :  if  such  loveliness  be  given 

To  sight  here, — what  of  that  which  she  doth  hide  ? 

Only  the  wondrous  ride 
Of  sun  and  planets  through  the  visible  heaven 

Tells  us  that  there  beyond  is  Paradise. 

Thus,  if  thou  fix  thine  eyes, 
Of  a  truth  certainly  thou  must  infer 
That  every  earthly  joy  abides  in  her." 

I  look  at  the  large  arms,  so  lithe  and  round,  — 
At  the  hands,  which  are  white  and  rosy  too,  — 
At  the  long  fingers,  clasped  and  woven  through, 
Bright  with  the  ring  which  one  of  them  doth  wear. 

Then  my  thought  whispers  :   "  Were  thy  body  wound 
Within  those  arms,  as  loving  women's  do. 
In  all  thy  veins  were  born  a  life  made  new 

Which  thou  couldst  find  no  language  to  declare. 
Behold  if  any  picture  can  compare 

With  her  just  limbs,  each  fit  in  shape  and  size, 
Or  match  her  angel's  color  like  a  pearl. 
She  is  a  gentle  girl 

To  see  ;  yet  when  it  needs,  her  scorn  can  rise. 
Meek,  bashful,  and  in  all  things  temperate, 
Her  virtue  holds  its  state; 

In  whose  least  act  there  is  that  gift  express'd 

Which  of  all  reverence  makes  her  worthiest." 

Soft  as  a  peacock  steps  she,  or  as  a  stork 
Straight  on  herself,  taller  and  stateher: 
'T  is  a  good  sight  how  every  limb  doth  stir 
For  ever  in  a  womanly  sweet  way. 
'  Open  thy  soul  to  see  God's  perfect  work  " 
(My  thought  begins  afresh),  "and  look  at  her 
When  with  some  ladv-friend  exceeding:  fair 


Fazio  degli  liberti. 


She  bends  and  mingles  arms  and  locks  in  play. 
Even  as  all  lesser  lights  vanish  away, 
When  the  sun  moves,  before  his  dazzling  face, 

So  is  this  lady  brighter  than  all  these. 

How  should  she  fail  to  please.  — 
Love's  self  being  no  more  than  her  loveliness  ? 

In  all  her  ways  some  beauty  springs  to  view; 

All  that  she  loves  to  do 
Tends  alway  to  her  honor's  single  scope  ; 
And  only  from  good  deeds  she  draws  her  hope." 

Song,  thou  canst  surely  say,  without  pretence, 
That  since  the  first  fair  woman  ever  made, 
Not  one  can  have  displayed 

More  power  upon  all  hearts  than  this  one  doth 
Because  in  her  are  both 
Loveliness  and  the  soul's  true  excellence  :  — 
And  yet  (woe  's  me  !)  is  pity  absent  thence  ? 


IL 

Extract  from  the  "  Dittamondo."  ^ 

(Lib.  IV.  Cap.  23.) 

Of  England,  and  of  its  Marvels. 

Now  to  Great  Britain  we  must  make  our  way, 
Unto  which  kingdom  Brutus  gave  its  name 
What  time  he  won  it  from  the  giants'  rule. 
'T  is  thought  at  first  its  name  was  Albion, 
And  Anglia,  from  a  damsel,  afterwards. 
The  island  is  so  great  and  rich  and  fair, 
It  conquers  others  that  in  Europe  be. 
Even  as  the  sun  surpasses  other  stars. 

1  I  am  quite  sorry  (after  the  foregoing  love-song,  the  original  of  which  is  not  per- 
haps surpassed  by  any  poem  of  its  class  in  existence)  to  endanger  the  English  reader's 
respect  for  Fazio  by  these  extracts  from  the  Dittafnondo,  or  "  Song  of  the  World,"  in 
which  he  will  find  his  own  country  endowed  with  some  astounding  properties.  How- 
ever, there  are  a  few  fine  characteristic  sentences,  and  the  rest  is  no  more  absurd  than 
other  travellers'  tales  of  that  day  ;  while  the  table  of  our  Norman  line  of  kings  is  not 
without  some  historical  interest.  It  must  be  remembered  that  the  love-song  was  the 
work  of  Fazio's  youth,  and  the  Dittamoiido  that  of  his  old  age,  when  we  may  suppose 
his  powers  to  have  been  no  longer  at  their  best.  Besides  what  I  have  given  relating  to 
Great  Britain,  there  is  a  table  of  the  Saxon  dynasty,  and  some  surprising  facts  about 
Scotland  and  Ireland;  as  well  as  a  curious  passage  written  in  French,  and  purporting 
to  be  an  account,  given  by  a  royal  courier,  of  Edward  the  Third's  invasion  of  France. 
I  felt  half  disposed  to  include  these,  but  was  afraid  of  overloading  with  such  matter  a 
selection  made  chiefly  for  the  sake  of  poetic  beauty.  I  should  mention  that  the  Ditta- 
mondo,  like  Dante's  great  poem,  is  written  in  terza  rima  ;  but  as  perfect  literality  was 
of  primary  importance  in  the  above  extracts,  I  have  departed  for  once  from  my  rule  of 
fidelity  to  the  original  metre. 


Fazio  degli  liberti.  279 

Many  and  great  sheep-pastures  bountifully 

Nature  has  set  there,  and  herein  more  bless'd, 

That  they  can  hold  themselves  secure  from  wolves. 

Jet  also  doth  the  hollow  land  enrich 

(Whose  properties  my  guide  Solinus  here 

Told  me,  and  how  its  color  comes  to  it); 

And  pearls  are  found  in  great  abundance  too. 

The  people  are  as  white  and  comely-faced 

As  they  of  Ethiop  land  are  black  and  foul. 

Many  hot  springs  and  limpid  fountain-heads 

We  found  about  this  land,  and  spacious  plains, 

And  divers  beasts  that  dwell  within  thick  woods. 

Plentiful  orchards  too  and  fertile  fields 

It  has,  and  castle-forts,  and  cities  fair 

With  palaces  and  girth  of  lofty  walls. 

And  proud  wide  rivers  without  any  fords 

We  saw,  and  flesh,  and  fish,  and  crops  enough. 

Justice  is  strong  throughout  those  provinces. 

Now  this  I  saw  not  ;  but  so  strange  a  thing 

It  was  to  hear,  and  by  all  men  confirm'd, 

That  it  is  fit  to  note  it  as  I  heard  ;  — 

To  wit,  there  is  a  certain  islet  here 

Among  the  rest,  where  folk  are  born  with  tails. 

Short,  as  are  found  in  stags  and  such-like  beasts. ^ 

For  this  I  vouch,  — that  when  a  child  is  freed 
From  swaddling  bands,  the  mother  without  stay 
Passes  elsewhere,  and  'scapes  the  care  of  it. 

I  put  no  faith  herein  ;  but  it  is  said 

Among  them,  how  such  marvellous  trees  are  there 

That  they  grow  birds,  and  this  is  their  sole  fruit."^ 

Forty  times  eighty  is  the  circuit  ta'en, 
With  ten  times  fifteen,  if  I  do  not  err, 
By  our  miles  reckoning  its  circumference. 
Here  every  metal  may  be  dug  ;  and  here 
I  found  the  people  to  be  given  to  God, 
Steadfast,  and  strong,  and  restive  to  constraint. 

'  Medieval  Britons  would  seem  really  to  have  been  credited  with  this  slight  pecu- 
liarity. At  the  siege  of  Damietta,  Coeur-de- Lion's  bastard  brother  is  said  to  have  pointed 
out  the  prudence  of  deferring  the  assault,  and  to  have  received  for  rejoinder  from  the 
French  crusaders,  "  See  now  these  faint-hearted  English  with  the  tails!  "'  To  which 
the  Englishman  replied,  "  You  will  need  stout  hearts  to  keep  near  our  tails  when  the 
assault  is  made." 

2  This  is  the  Barnacle-tree,  often  described  in  old  books  of  travels  and  natural  his- 
tory, and  which  Sir  Thomas  Browne  classes  gravely  among  his  "  Vulgar  Errors." 


28o  Fazio  degli  Uberti. 

Nor  is  this  strange,  when  one  considereth  ; 
For  courage,  beauty,  and  large-heartedness, 
Were  there,  as  it  is  said,  in  ancient  days. 

North  Wales,  and  Orkney,  and  the  banks  of  Thames, 

Strangoure  and  Listenois  and  Northumberland, 

I  chose  with  my  companion  to  behold.^ 

We  went  to  London,  and  I  saw  the  Tower 

Where  Guenevere  her  honor  did  defend. 

With  the  Thames  river  which  runs  close  to  it. 

I  saw  the  castle  which  by  force  was  ta'en 

With  the  three  shields  by  gallant  Lancelot, 

The  second  year  that  he  did  deeds  of  arms. 

I  beheld  Camelot  despoiled  and  waste  ; 

And  was  where  one  and  the  other  had  her  birth, 

The  maids  of  Corbonek  and  Astolat. 

Also  I  saw  the  castle  where  Geraint 

Lay  with  his  Enid  ;  likewise  Merlin's  stone, 

Which  for  another's  love  I  joyed  to  see. 

I  found  the  tract  where  is  the  pine-tree  well. 

And  where  of  old  the  knight  of  the  black  shield 

With  weeping  and  with  laughter  kept  the  pass, 

What  time  the  pitiless  and  bitter  dwarf 

Before  Sir  Gawaine's  eyes  discourteously 

With  many  heavy  stripes  led  him  away. 

I  saw  the  valley  which  Sir  Tristram  won 

When  having  slain  the  giant  hand  to  hand 

He  set  the  stranger  knights  from  prison  free. 

And  last  I  viewed  the  field,  at  Salisbury, 

Of  that  great  martyrdom  which  left  the  world 

Empty  of  honor,  valor,  and  delight. 

So,  compassing  that  Island  round  and  round, 
I  saw  and  hearkened  many  things  and  more 
Which  might  be  fair  to  tell  but  which  I  hide. 

^  What  follows  relates  to  the  Romances  of  the  Round  Table.  The  only  allusion 
here  which  I  cannot  trace  to  the  3Iort  d  ''  A  rihur  i^  one  where  "  Rech  "  and  "  Nida  "  are 
spoken  of  :  it  seems  however  that,  by  a  perversion  hardly  too  corrupt  for  Fazio,  these 
might  be  the  Geraint  and  Enid  whose  story  occurs  in  the  Mabifiogto7t,  and  has  been 
used  by  Tennyson  in  his  Idylls  of  the  Kifig.  Why  Fazio  should  have  "  joyed  to  see  " 
Merlin's  stone  "  for  another's  love  "  seems  inscrutable  ;  unless  indeed  the  words  "per 
atnor  altrui  "  are  a  mere  idiom,  and  Merlin  himself  is  meant  ;  and  even  then  Merlin, 
in  his  compulsory  niche  under  the  stone,  may  hardly  have  been  grateful  for  such 
friendly  interest. 

I  should  not  omit,  in  this  second  edition,  to  acknowledge  several  obligations,  as  re- 
gards the  above  extract  from  the  Dittamondo,  to  the  unknown  author  of  an  acute  and 
kindly  article  in  the  Spectator  for  January  i8,  1862. 


Fazio  degli  U berti.  281 

III. 

Extract  from  the  "  Dittamondo." 

(Lib.  IV.  Cap.  25.) 

'Of  the  Dukes   of  Nortnandy^    and  thence   of  the  Kings  of 
England^  from  William  the  First  to  Edward  the  Third. 

Thou  well  hast  heard  that  Rollo  had  two  sons, 

One  William  Longsword,  and  the  other  Richard, 

Whom  thou  now  know'st  to  the  marrow,  as  I  do.^ 

Daring  and  watchful,  as  a  leopard  is, 

Was  William,  fair  in  body  and  in  face, 

Ready  at  all  times,  never  slow  to  act. 

He  fought  great  battles,  but  at  last  was  slain 

By  the  earl  of  Flanders  ;  so  that  in  his  place 

Richard  his  son  was  o'er  the  people  set. 

And  next  in  order,  lit  with  blessed  flame 

Of  the  Holy  Spirit,  his  son  followed  him 

Who  justly  lived  'twixt  more  and  less  midway,  — 

His  father's  likeness,  as  in  shape  in  name. 

So  unto  him  succeeded  as  his  heir 

Robert  the  Frank,  high-counselled  and  august  : 

And  thereon  following,  I  proceed  to  tell 

How  William,  who  was  Robert's  son,  did  make 

The  realm  of  England  his  co-heritage. 

The  same  was  brave  and  courteous  certainly, 

Generous  and  gracious,  humble  before  God, 

Master  in  war  and  versed  in  counsel  too. 

He  with  great  following  came  from  Normandy 

And  fought  with  Harold,  and  so  left  him  slain, 

And  took  the  realm,  and  held  it  at  his  will. 

Thus  did  this  kingdom  change  its  signiory  ; 

And  know  that  all  the  kings  it  since  has  had 

Only  from  this  man  take  their  origin. 

Therefore,  that  thou  mayst  quite  forget  its  past, 

I  say  this  happened  when,  since  our  Lord's  Love, 

Some  thousand  years  and  sixty  were  gone  by. 

While  the  fourth  Henry  ruled  as  emperor, 
This  king  of  England  fought  in  many  wars. 
And  waxed  through  all  in  honor  and  account. 

'  The  speaker  here  is  the  poet's  guide  Solinus  (a  historical  and  gec.graphical  writer 
of  the  third  century),  who  bears  the  same  relation  to  him  which  Virgil  bears  to  Dante 
in  the  Commedia. 


'.82  Fazio  degli  liberti. 


And  William  Rufus  next  succeeded  him  ; 

Tall,  strong,  and  comely-limbed,  but  therewith  proud 

And  grasping,  and  a  killer  of  his  kind. 

In  body  he  was  like  his  father  much. 

But  was  in  nature  more  his  contrary 

Than  fire  and  water  when  they  come  together  ; 

Yet  so  far  good  that  he  won  fame  in  arms, 

And  by  himself  risked  many  an  enterprise, 

All  which  he  brought  with  honor  to  an  end. 

Also  if  he  were  bad,  he  gat  great  ill  : 

For,  chasing  once  the  deer  within  a  wood, 

And  having  wandered  from  his  company, 

Him  by  mischance  a  servant  of  his  own 

Hit  with  an  arrow,  that  he  fell  and  died. 

And  after  him  Henry  the  First  was  king. 

His  brother,  but  therewith  the  father's  like, 

Being  well  with  God  and  just  in  peace  and  war. 

Next  Stephen,  on  his  death,  the  kingdom  seized, 

But  with  sore  strife  ;  of  whom  thus  much  be  said, 

That  he  was  frank  and  good  is  told  of  him. 

And  after  him  another  Henry  reigned. 

Who,  when  the  war  in  France  was  waged  and  done, 

Passed  beyond  seas  with  the  first  Frederick. 

Then  Richard  came,  who,  after  heavy  toil 

At  sea,  was  captive  made  in  Germany, 

Leaving  the  Sepulchre  to  join  his  host. 

Who  being  dead,  full  heavy  was  the  wrath 

Of  John  his  brother  ;  and  so  well  he  took 

Revenge,  that  still  a  moan  is  made  of  it. 

This  John  in  kingly  largesse  and  in  war 

Delighted,  when  the  kingdom  fell  to  him  ; 

Hunting  and  riding  ever  in  hot  haste. 

Handsome  in  body  and  most  poor  in  heart, 
Henry  his  son  and  heir  succeeded  him, 
Of  whom  to  speak  I  count  it  wretchedness. 
Yet  there  's  some  good  to  say  of  him,  I  grant  : 
Because  of  him  was  the  good  Edward  born. 
Whose  valor  still  is  famous  in  the  world. 
The  same  was  he  who,  being  without  dread 
Of  the  Old  Man's  Assassins,  captured  them, 
And  who  repaid  the  jester  if  he  lied.^ 
The  same  was  he  who  over  seas  wrought  scathe 
So  many  times  to  Malekdar,  and  bent 
Unto  the  Christian  rule  whole  provinces. 

^  This  may  either  refer  to  some  special  incident  or  merely  mean  generally  that  he 
would  not  suffer  lying  even  in  a  jester. 


Fazio  degli  liberti.  283 


He  was  a  giant  of  his  body,  and  great 

And  proud  to  view,  and  of  such  strength  of  soul 

As  never  saddens  with  adversity. 

His  reign  was  long  ;  and  when  his  death  befell, 
The  second  Edward  mounted  to  the  throne, 
Who  was  of  one  kind  with  his  grandfather. 
I  say  from  what  report  still  says  of  him, 
That  he  was  evil,  of  base  intellect, 
And  would  not  be  advised  by  any  man. 
Conceive,  good  heart  !  that  how  to  thatch  a  roof 
With  straw,  —  conceive  !  —  he  held  himself  expert, 
And  therein  constantly  would  take  delight  ! 
By  fraud  he  seized  the  Earl  of  Lancaster, 
And  what  he  did  with  him  I  say  not  here, 
But  that  he  left  him  neither  town  nor  tower. 
And  thiswise,  step  by  step,  thou  mayst  perceive 
That  I  to  the  third  Edward  have  advanced, 
Who  now  lives  strong  and  full  of  enterprise. 
And  who  already  has  grown  manifest 
For  the  best  Christian  known  of  in  the  world. 
Thus  I  have  told,  as  thou  wouldst  have  me  tell, 
The  race  of  William  even  unto  the  end. 


284  Franco  Sacchetti. 


FRANCO   SACCHETTI. 


Ballata. 

His  Talk  with  certain  Peasant-girls. 

"Ye  graceful  peasant-girls  and  mountain-maids, 

Whence  come  ye  homeward  through  these  evening  shades  ? 

"  We  come  from  where  the  forest  skirts  the  hill  ; 

A  very  little  cottage  is  our  home, 
Where  with  our  father  and  our  mother  still 

We  live,  and  love  our  life,  nor  wish  to  roam. 

Back  every  evening  from  the  field  we  come 
And  bring  with  us  our  sheep  from  pasturing  there." 

"  Where,  tell  me,  is  the  hamlet  of  your  birth, 
Whose  fruitage  is  the  sweetest  by  so  much  ? 

Ye  seem  to  me  as  creatures  worship-worth, 
The  shining  of  your  countenance  is  such. 
No  gold  about  your  clothes,  coarse  to  the  touch. 

Nor  silver;  yet  with  such  an  angel's  air  ! 

"  I  think  your  beauties  might  make  great  complaint 

Of  being  thus  shown  over  mount  and  dell  ; 
Because  no  city  is  so  excellent 

But  that  your  stay  therein  were  honorable. 

In  very  truth,  now,  does  it  like  ye  well 
To  live  so  poorly  on  the  hill-side  here  ?  " 

"  Better  it  liketh  one  of  us,  pardie, 

Behind  her  flock  to  seek  the  pasture -stance, 

Far  better  than  it  liketh  one  of  ye 

To  ride  unto  your  curtained  rooms  and  dance. 
We  seek  no  riches  neither  golden  chance 

Save  wealth  of  flowers  to  weave  into  our  hair." 


Franco  Sacchetti.  285 


Ballad,  if  I  were  now  as  once  I  was, 

I  'd  make  myself  a  shepherd  on  some  hill, 

And,  without  telling  any  one,  would  pass 

Where  these  girls  went,  and  follow  at  their  will  ; 
And  "  Mary  "  and  "  Martin  "  we  would  murmur  still, 

And  I  would  be  for  ever  where  they  were. 

IL 

Catch. 

On  a  Fine  Day. 

"  Be  stirring,  girls  !  we  ought  to  have  a  run  : 

Look,  did  you  ever  see  so  fine  a  day  ? 

Fling  spindles  right  away, 

And  rocks  and  reels  and  wools  : 
Now  don't  be  fools,  — 
To-day  your  spinning  's  done. 
Up  with  you,  up  with  you  !  "     So,  one  by  one, 

They  caught  hands,  catch  who  can. 

Then  singing,  singing,  to  the  river  they  ran, 

They  ran,  they  ran 
To  the  river,  the  river  ; 

And  the  merry-go-round 

Carries  them  at  a  bound 
■     To  the  mill  o'er  the  river. 
"  Miller,  miller,  miller. 
Weigh  me  this  lady 
And  this  other.     Now,  steady  !  " 
"  You  weigh  a  hundred,  you, 
And  this  one  weighs  two." 
"  Why,  dear,  you  do  get  stout  !  " 
"  You  think  so,  dear,  no  doubt  : 
Are  you  in  a  decline  ?  " 
"  Keep  your  temper,  and  I  '11  keep  mine." 
"  Come,  girls,"  ("  O  thank  you,  miller  !  ") 

"  We  '11  go  home  when  you  will." 

So,  as  we  crossed  the  hill, 
A  clown  came  in  great  grief 
Crying,  "  Stop  thief  !  stop  thief  ! 

0  what  a  wretch  I  am  !  " 

"  Well,  fellow,  here  's  a  clatter  ! 
Well,  what 's  the  matter?  " 

"  O  Lord,  O  Lord,  the  wolf  has  got  my  lamb  !  " 
Now  at  that  word  of  woe. 
The  beauties  came  and  clung  about  me  so 

That  if  wolf  had  but  shown  himself,  maybe 

1  too  had  caught  a  lamb  that  fled  to  me. 


286  Franco  Sacchetti. 


III. 

Catch. 

On  a  Wet  Day. 

As  I  walked  thinking  through  a  little  grove, 

Some  girls  that  gathered  flowers  came  passing  me, 
Saying,  "  Look  here  !  look  there  !  "  delightedly. 

''  O  here  it  is  !  "     "  What 's  that  ?"     "A  lily,  love." 

"  And  there  are  violets  !  " 

"  Further  for  roses  !     Oh  the  lovely  pets  — 

The  darling  beauties  !     Oh  the  nasty  thorn  ! 

Look  here,  my  hand  's  all  torn  !  " 

"  What 's  that  that  jumps?"     "  Oh  don't  !  it's  a  grasshopper!' 

"  Come  run,  come  run, 

Heje  's  bluebells  !  "     "  Oh  what  fun  !  " 

"  Not  that  way  !     Stop  her  !  " 

*'  Yes,  this  way  !  "     "  Pluck  them,  then  !  " 

"  Oh,  I  've  found  mushrooms  !     Oh  look  here  !  "     "  Oh,  I  'm 

Quite  sure  that  further  on  we  '11  get  wild  thyme." 

"  Oh  we  shall  stay  too  long,  it 's  going  to  rain  ! 

There  's  lightning,  oh  there 's  thunder  !  " 

"  Oh  shan't  we  hear  the  vesper-bell,  I  wonder?" 

"  Why,  it 's  not  nones,  you  silly  little  thing; 

And  don't  you  hear  the  nightingales  that  sing 

Fly  away  O  die  away  ?  " 

"  O  I  hear  something  !     Hush  !  " 

"Why,  where  ?  what  is  it  then  ?  "     "  Ah  !  in  that  bush  !  " 

So  every  girl  here  knocks  it,  shakes  and  shocks  it, 

Till  with  the  stir  they  make 

Out  skurries  a  great  snake. 

"  O  Lord  !     O  me  !     Alack  !     Ah  me  !  alack  !  " 

They  scream,  and  then  all  run  and  scream  again, 

And' then  in  heavy  drops  down  comes  the  rain. 


Each  running  at  the  other  in  a  fright. 

Each  trying  to  get  before  the  other,  and  crying. 

And  flying,  stumbling,  tumbling,  wrong  or  right  ; 

One  sets  her  knee 

There  where  her  foot  should  be  ; 

One  has  her  hands  and  dress 

All  smothered  up  with  mud  in  a  fine  mess  ; 

And  one  gets  trampled  on  by  two  or  three. 

What 's  gathered  is  let  fall 

About  the  wood  and  not  picked  up  at  all. 


Franco  Sacchetti.  287 


The  wreaths  of  flowers  are  scattered  on  the  ground  ; 
And  still  as  screaming  hustling  without  rest 
They  run  this  way  and  that  and  round  and  round, 
She  thinks  herself  in  luck  who  runs  the  best. 

I  stood  quite  still  to  have  a  perfect  view 
And  never  noticed  till  I  got  wet  through. 


288  Anonymous  Poems. 


ANONYMOUS   POEMS. 
I. 

Sonnet. 
A  Lady  laments  for  her  lost  Lover.,  by  similitude  of  a  Falcon. 

Alas  for  me,  who  loved  a  falcon  well  ! 
So  well  I  loved  him,  I  was  nearly  dead  : 
Ever  at  my  low  call  he  bent  his  head. 

And  ate  of  mine,  not  much,  but  all  that  fell. 

Now  he  has  tied,  how  high  I  cannot  tell, 
Much  higher  now  than  ever  he  has  fled, 
And  is  in  a  fair  garden  housed  and  fed  ; 

Another  lady,  alas  !  shall  love  him  well. 

0  my  own  falcon  whom  I  taught  and  rear'd  ! 
Sweet  bells  of  shining  gold  I  gave  to  thee 

That  in  the  chase  thou  shouldst  not  be  afeard. 

Now  thou  hast  risen  like  the  risen  sea. 
Broken  thy  jesses  loose,  and  disappeared, 

As  soon  as  thou  wast  skilled  in  falconry. 

II. 

Ballata. 

Otte  speaks  of  the  Begimiing  of  his  Love. 

This  fairest  one  of  all  the  stars,  whose  flame, 

For  ever  lit,  my  inner  spirit  fills, 

Came  to  me  first  one  day  between  the  hills. 

1  wondered  very  much  ;  but  God  the  Lord 

Said,  "  From  Our  Virtue,  lo  !  this  light  is  pour'd." 
So  in  a  dream  it  seemed  that  I  was  led 
By  a  great  Master  to  a  garden  spread 
With  lilies  underfoot  and  overhead. 


Anonymotts  Poems.  289 


III. 

Ballata. 

One  speaks  of  his  False  Lady. 

When  the  last  grayness  dwells  throughout  the  air 

And  the  first  star  appears, 

Appeared  to  me  a  lady  very  fair. 

I  seemed  to  know  her  well  by  her  sweet  air  ; 

And,  gazing,  I  was  hers. 
To  honor  her,  I  followed  her  :  and  then  .  .  . 
Ah  !  what  thou  givest,  God  give  thee  again, 
Whenever  thou  remain'st  as  I  remain. 


IV. 

Ballata. 
One  speaks  of  his  Feigned  and  Real  Love. 

For  no  love  borne  by  me, 
Neither  because  I  care 
To  find  that  thou  art  fair,  — 
To  give  another  pain  I  gaze  on  thee. 

And  now,  lest  such  as  thought  that  thou  couldst  move 

My  heart,  should  read  this  verse, 
I  will  say  here,  another  has  my  love. 

An  angel  of  the  spheres 

She  seems,  and  I  am  hers  ; 

Who  has  more  gentleness 

And  owns  a  fairer  face 
Than  any  woman  else,  —  at  least,  to  me. 

Sweeter  than  any,  more  in  all  at  ease, 

Lighter  and  lovelier. 
Not  to  disparage  thee  ;  for  whoso  sees 

May  like  thee  more  than  her. 

This  vest  will  one  prefer 

And  one  another  vest. 

To  me  she  seems  the  best, 
And  I  am  hers,  and  let  what  will  be,  be. 

For  no  love  borne  by  me, 
Neither  because  I  care 
To  find  that  thou  art  fair,  — 
To  give  another  pain,  I  gaze  on  thee. 

19 


►90  Aìioiiyuioiis  Poems. 

V. 

Ballata. 
Of  True  and  False  Singing. 

A  LITTLE  wild  bird  sometimes  at  my  ear 
Sings  his  own  verses  very  clear  : 

Others  sing  louder  that  I  do  not  hear. 

For  singing  loudly  is  not  singing  well  ; 
But  ever  by  the  song  that 's  soft  and  low 

The  master-singer's  voice  is  plain  to  tell. 
Few  have  it  and  yet  all  are  masters  now, 

And  each  of  them  can  trill  out  what  he  calls 

His  ballads,  canzonets,  and  madrigals. 

The  world  with  masters  is  so  covered  o'er, 

There  is  no  room  for  pupils  any  more. 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES, 

[ENGLISH  AND  ITALIAN.) 


PAGE 

A  CERTAIN  youthful  lady  in  Thoulouse 
Una  giovine  donna  di  Tolosa 94 

A  day  agone  as  I  rode  sullenly 

Cavalcando  r  al  trier  per  tin  cammino 33 

A  fresh  content  of  fresh  enamouring 

Novella  gioia  e  nova  innamoranza 268 

A  gentle  thought  there  is  will  often  start 

Gentil  pensiero  che  parla  di  vui 73 

A  lady  in  whom  love  is  manifest 

La  bella  donna  dove  Amor  si  mostra 104 

Alas  for  me  who  loved  a  falcon  well 

Tapina  me  che  amava  tino  sparviero 28S 

Albeit  my  prayers  have  not  so  long  delay'd 

Avvegna  ched  io  m' aggio  più  per  tempo 119 

A  little  wild  bird  sometimes  at  my  ear 

Aicgelletto  selvaggio  per  stagione 290 

All  my  thoughts  always  speak  to  me  of  Love 

Tutti  li  miei pensier  parlan  d'' Amore 38 

All  the  whole  world  is  living  without  war 

Tutto  lo  mondo  vive  senza  guerra 180 

Ali  ye  that  pass  along  Love's  trodden  way 

O  voi  che  per  la  via  d'' amor  passate 30 

Along  the  road  all  shapes  must  travel  by 

Per  quella  via  che  I'  altre /orme  vanno 149 

A  man  should  hold  in  very  dear  esteem 

Ogni  tiomo  deve  assai  caro  tenere 23 1 

Among  my  thoughts  I  count  it  wonderful 

Ptire  a  pensar  mi  par  gran  meraviglia 191 

Among  the  dancers  I  beheld  her  dance 

Alia  danza  la  vidi  danzare 264 

Among  the  faults  we  in  that  book  descry 

hifra  gli  altri  difetti  del  libello 126 


292  Index  of  First  Lines. 

PAGE 

And  every  Wednesday  as  the  swift  days  move 

Ogni  Mercoledì  corredo  grande 246 

And  in  September  O  what  keen  delight 

Di  Settembre  vi  do  diletti  tanti 243 

And  now  take  thought  my  Sonnet  who  is  he 

Sonetto  mio,  anda  0'  lo  divisi 244 

And  on  the  morrow  at  first  peep  o'  the  day 

Alia  domane  al  parere  del  giorno 248 

As  I  walked  thinking  through  a  little  grove 

Passando  con  pensier  per  tin  boschetto 286 

As  thou  wert  loath  to  see  before  thy  feet 

Se  non  ti  caggia  la  tua  Santalena 140 

A  spirit  of  Love  with  Love's  intelligence 

Ispirilo  d  Amor  con  intelletto 266 

A  thing  is  in  my  mind 

Venuto  m'  è  in  talento 195 

At  whiles  yea  oftentimes  I  muse  over 

Spesse  fiate  venemi  alla  niente 42 

A  very  pitiful  lady  very  young 

Donna  pietosa  e  di  novella  etate 53 

Ay  me  alas  the  beautiful  bright  hair 

Ohimè  lasso  quelle  treccie  bionde 124 

Ballad  since  Love  himself  hath  fashioned  thee 

Ballata  poi  che  ti  co7npose  Amore 144 

Beauty  in  woman  the  high  will's  decree 

Beltà  di  donna  e  di  saccente  core 91 

Because  I  find  not  whom  to  speak  withal 

Poich'  io  non  trovo  chi  meco  ragioni 86 

Because  I  think  not  ever  to  return 

Perch"  io  7ion  spero  di  tornar  giammai 108 

Because  mine  eyes  can  never  have  their  fill 

Poiché  saziar  non  posso  gli  occhi  miei 81 

Because  ye  made  your  backs  your  shields  it  came 

Guelfi  per  fare  scudo  delle  reni 237 

Being  in  thought  of  love  I  chanced  to  see 

Era  in  pensier  d'  amor  quand''  io  trovai 94 

Be  stirring  girls  we  ought  to  have  a  run 

State  su  donate  che  debbiam  noi  fare 285 

Beyond  the  sphere  which  spreads  to  widest  space 

Oltre  la  spera  che  piti  larga  gira 77 

By  a  clear  well  within  a  little  field 

Intorno  ad  una  fonte  in  un  pratello 162 

By  the  long  sojourning 

Per  lunga  dimoranza 227 

Canst  thou  indeed  be  he  that  still  would  sing 

Sei  tu  colui  eh'  hai  trattato  sovente 5° 


Index  of  First  Lines.  293 


PAGE 

Dante  Alighieri  a  dark  oracle 

Dante  Alighieri  son  Minerva  oscttra i6o 

Dante  Alighieri  Cecco  your  good  friend 

Dante  Alighier  Cecco  tno  servo  e  amico 130 

Dante  Alighieri  if  I  jest  and  lie 

Dante  Alighier  j'  io  son  buon  begolardo 141 

Dante  Alighieri  in  Becchina's  praise 

Lassar  vuol  lo  trovare  di  Becchina 135 

Dante  a  sigh  that  rose  from  the  heart's  core 

Dante  nn  sospiro  messagger  del  core 97 

Dante  if  thou  within  the  sphere  of  Love 

Datile  se  tu  neW  amorosa  spera 161 

Dante  since  I  from  my  own  native  place 

Poich^  io  fui  Dante  dal  mio  natal  sito 86 

Dante  whenever  this  thing  happeneth 

Dante  quando  per  caso  s*  abbandona 121 

Death  alway  cruel  Pity's  foe  in  chief 

Morte  villana  di  Pietà  nemica 31 

Death  since  I  find  not  one  with  whom  to  grieve 

Morte  poich'  io  nan  trovo  a  cui  mi  doglia Zt^ 

Death  why  hast  thou  made  life  so  hard  to  bear 

Morte  perchè  m^  hai  fatto  si  grail  guerra 215 

Do  not  conceive  that  I  shall  here  recount 

Non  intendiate  eh'  io  qui  le  vi  dica 270 

Each  lover's  longing  leads  him  naturally 

N'aturalmente  chere  ogni  aiuadore 118 

Even  as  the  day  when  it  is  yet  at  dawning 

Come  lo  giorno  quatido  è  al  mattino 259 

Even  as  the  moon  among  the  stars  doth  shed 

Come  le  stelle  sopra  la  Diana 265 

Even  as  the  others  mock  thou  mockest  me 

Con  r  altre  donne  mia  vista  gabbate 40 

Fair  sir  this  love  of  ours 

Messer  lo  nostro  amore 219 

Flowers  hast  thou  in  thyself  and  foliage 

Avete  Ì7i  voi  li  fiori  e  la  verdura 91 

For  a  thing  done  repentance  is  no  good 

A  cosa  fatta  già  non  vai  pentire 137 

For  August  be  your  dwelling  thirty  towers 

D""  Agosto  SI  vi  do  t retila  castella 242 

For  certain  he  hath  seen  all  perfectness 

Vede  perfettamente  ogni  salute 61 

For  grief  I  am  about  to  sing 

Di  dolor  ?ni  conviene  cantare 184 

For  January  I  give  you  vests  of  skins 

Io  dotto  vai  nel  mese  di  Gennaio 239 


!94  Index  of  First  Lines. 


PAGE 

For  July  in  Siena  by  the  willow-tree 

Di  Luglio  in  Siena  sulla  saliciata 242 

For  no  love  borne  by  me 

No7t  per  ben  ch^  io  ti  voglia 289 

For  Thursday  be  the  tournament  prepared 

Ed  ogni  Gioved  ì  torìiiamento 247 

Friend  well  I  know  thou  knowest  well  to  bear 

Amico  saccio  ben  che  sai  lijna7'e 102 

Glory  to  God  and  to  God's  Mother  chaste 

Lode  di  Dio  e  della  Madre  pura 150 

Gramercy  Death  as  you  've  my  love  to  win 

Alerte  mercè  sì  ti priego  e  in"  è  in  grato 139 

Guido  an  image  of  my  lady  dwells 

Una  figura  della  donna  mia 93 

Guido  I  wish  that  Lapo  thou  and  I 

Guido  vorrei  che  tu  e  Lapo  ed  io 96 

Guido  that  Gianni  who  a  day  agone 

Guido  quel  Gianni  che  a  te  fu  l' altrieri 102 

Hard  is  it  for  a  man  to  please  all  men 

Gi'eve  puof  uom  piacere  a  tutta  gente 193 

He  that  has  grown  to  wisdom  hurries  not 

Uo7no  ch'  è  saggio  non  corre  leggiero 190 

Her  face  has  made  my  life  most  proud  and  glad 

Lo  viso  mi  fa  andare  allegramente 204 

I  am  afar  but  near  thee  is  my  heart 

Lontan  vi  son  ma  presso  v'' è  lo  core 257 

I  am  all  bent  to  glean  the  golden  ore 

Io  mi  son  dato  tutto  a  tr agger  oro 121 

I  am  enamoured  and  yet  not  so  much 

Io  sono  innamorato  ma  non  tanto 131 

I  am  so  passing  rich  in  poverty 

Eo  son  si  ricco  della  povertate 218 

I  am  so  out  of  love  through  poverty 

La  povertà  m*  ha  sì  disamorato 138 

I  come  to  thee  by  daytime  constantly 

Io  vegeto  il  giorno  a  te  infittite  volte       105 

I  felt  a  spirit  of  love  begin  to  stir 

Io  mi  sentii  svegliar  dentro  dal  core 56 

If  any  his  own  foolishness  might  see 

Chi  conoscesse  si  la  sua  fallanza 209 

If  any  man  would  know  the  very  cause 

Se  alcun  volesse  la  cagion  savere 192 

If  any  one  had  anything  to  say 

Chi  Messer  Ugolin  biasma  0  riprende 262 

If  as  thou  say'st  thy  love  tormented  thee 

Se  vi  stringesse  quanto  dite  amore 234 


Index  of  First  Lines.  295 

PAGE 

If  Dante  mourns  there  wheresoe'er  he  be 

Se  Dante  piaìige  dove  ch^  el  si  sia i6o 

If  l 'd  a  sack  of  florins  and  all  new 

S^  io  avessi  tin  sacco  di  fiorini 133 

If  I  entreat  this  lady  that  all  grace 

S' io  prego  questa  donna  che  pietate 100 

If  I  were  fire  I  'd  burn  the  world  away 

S'' io  fossi  foco  arderei  lo  mondo 136 

If  I  were  still  that  man  worthy  to  love 

S"*  io  fossi  quello  che  d'' amor  fit  degno 97 

If  thou  hadst  offered  friend  to  blessed  Mary 

Se  avessi  detto  amico  di  Maria 93 

If  you  could  see  fair  brother  how  dead  beat 

Fratel  se  tu  vedessi  questa  gente 269 

I  give  you  horses  for  your  games  in  May 

Di  Maggio  sì  vi  do  molti  cavagli 241 

I  give  you  meadow-lands  in  April  fair 

D' Aprile  vi  do  la  gentil  campagna "241 

I  have  it  in  my  heart  to  serve  God  so 

Io  m!*  aggio  posto  in  core  a  Dio  servire 199 

I  hold  him  verily  of  mean  emprise 

Tegno  di  folle  impresa  allo  ver  dire 189 

I  know  not  Dante  in  what  refuge  dwells 

Dante  io  non  odo  in  qtial  albergo  suoni 87 

I  labored  these  six  years 

Sei  anni  ho  travagliato 208 

I  look  at  the  crisp  golden-threaded  hair 

Io  miro  i  crespi  e  gli  biondi  capegli 276 

l 'm  caught  like  any  thrush  the  nets  surprise 

Babbo  Becchina  Amore  e  mia  madre 135 

l 'm  full  of  everything  I  do  not  want 

Io  ho  tiitte  le  cose  ch^  io  non  voglio 133 

.  In  February  I  give  you  gallant  sport 

Di  Febbraio  vi  dono  bella  caccia 240 

In  March  I  give  you  plenteous  fisheries 

Di  Marzo  sì  vi  do  zma  peschiera 240 

In  June  I  give  you  a  close-wooded  fell 

Di  Giugno  dovvi  una  tnontagnetta 241 

I  play  this  sweet  prelude 

Dolce  cominciamento 255 

I  pray  thee  Dante  shouldst  thou  meet  with  Love 

Se  vedi  Amore  assai  ti  prego  Dante 98 

I  thought  to  be  for  ever  separate 

Io  mi  credea  del  tutto  esser  partito 85 

l 've  jolliest  merriment  for  Saturday 

E  il  Sabato  diletto  ed  allegranza 248 


296  Index  of  First  Lines. 

PAGE 

I  was  upon  the  high  and  blessed  mound 

Io  fui  in  siiir  alto  e  in  sill  beato  ino7ite 123 

I  would  like  better  in  the  grace  to  be 

Io  vorrei  innanzi  in  grazia  ritornare 139 

Just  look  Manette  at  that  wry-mouthed  minx 

Guarda  Manetta  quella  sgrignutiizza 107 

Ladies  that  have  intelligence  in  Love 

Donile  che  avete  intelletto  d'  Arnore 44 

Lad}'  my  wedded  thought 

La  mia  amorosa  niente 222 

Lady  of  Heaven  the  Mother  glorified 

Donna  del  cielo  gloriosa  77iadre 217 

Lady  with  all  the  pains  that  I  can  take 

Donna  io  forzeraggio  lo  podere 253 

Last  All-Saints'  holy-day  even  now  gone  by 

Di  donne  io  vidi  nna  gentile  schiera 79 

Last  for  December  houses  on  the  plain 

E  di  Dicembre  una  città  in  piano 244 

Let  baths  and  wine-butts  be  November's  due 

E  di  A'^ovembre petriulo  e  il  bagno 243 

Let  Friday  be  your  highest  hunting-tide 

Ed  ogni  Venerdì  gran  caccia  e  forte 247 

Let  not  the  inhabitants  of  hell  despair 

Non  si  disperin  quelli  dello  Inferno 140 

Lo  I  am  she  who  makes  the  wheel  to  turn 

Io  son  la  donna  che  volgo  la  rota 109 

Love  and  the  gentle  heart  are  one  same  thing 

Amore  e  cor  gentil  son  una  cosa 47 

Love  and  the  Lady  Lagia  Guido  and  I 

Amore  e  Monna  Lagia  e  Guido  ed  io 98 

Love  hath  so  long  possessed  me  for  his  own 

Sì  lungamente  tn'  ha  tenuto  Amore 61 

Love  I  demand  to  have  my  lady  in  fee 

Amore  io  chero  mia  donna  in  domino 143 

Love's  pallor  and  the  semblance  of  deep  ruth 

Color  d'  amore  e  di  pietà  sembianti 70 

Love  since  it  is  thy  will  that  I  return 

Perchè  ti  piace  Amore  eh'  io  ritorni 81 

Love  steered  my  course  while  yet  the  Sun  rode  high 

Guidommi  Amor  ardendo  ancora  il  Sole 161 

Love  taking  leave  my  heart  then  leaveth  me 

Amor  s' eo  pai'to  il  cor  si  parte  e  dole 235 

Love  will  not  have  me  cry 

Ainor  non  vuol  ch'  io  clami 201 

Many  there  are  praisers  of  poverty 

Molti  son  quei  che  lodaji  poz'ertade 147 


y 


<i/f^ 


Index  of  First  Lines.  297 

PAGE 

Marvellously  elate 

Maravigliosajitente 199 

Master  Bertuccio  you  are  called  to  account 

Messer  Bertuccio  a  dritto  nom  vi  ca^^ioiia 261 

Master  Brunetto  this  my  little  maid 

Messer  Brunetto  questa  p7ilzelletta 79 

Mine  eyes  beheld  the  blessed  pity  spring 

Videro  gli  occhi  miei  quanta  pietate 70 

My  body  resting  in  a  haunt  of  mine 

Poso  il  corpo  ill  un  loco  mio  pigliando 228 

My  curse  be  on  the  day  when  first  I  saw 

Jo  maladico  il  dì  di'  io  vidi  iìnprinia 89 

My  heart 's  so  heavy  with  a  hundred  things 

Io  ho  sì  tristo  il  cor  di  cose  cento 134 

My  lady  carries  love  within  her  eyes 

Negli  occhi  porta  la  mia  donna  amore 48 

My  lady  looks  so  gentle  and  so  pure 

Tanto  gentile  e  tanto  onesta  pare 60 

My  lady  mine  I  send 

Madonna  mia  a  voi  mando 203 

My  lady  thy  delightful  high  command 

Aladonna  vostro  altero  piacimento 211 

Nero  thus  much  for  tidings  in  thine  ear 

Novella  ti  so  dij-e  odi  Nerone 107 

Never  so  bare  and  naked  was  church-stone 

Nel  tempio  santo  non  vid''  io  mai  pietra 1 38 

Never  was  joy  or  good  that  did  not  soothe 

Gioia  uè  hen  nan  è  senza  conforto 221 

Next  for  October  to  some  sheltered  coign 

Di  Ottobre  nel  canta  eh'  ha  buono  stallo 243 

No  man  may  mount  upon  a  golden  stair 

Non  vi  si  monta  per  iscala  d' oro 104 

Now  of  the  hue  of  ashes  are  the  Whites 

Color  di  cener  fatti  son  li  Bianchi 14- 

Now  these  four  things  if  thou 

Quattro  cose  chi  vuole     .     .     .     .    , 272 

Now  to  Great  Britain  we  must  make  our  way 

Ora  si  passa  nella  Gran  Bretagna 278 

Now  when  it  flowereth 

Oramai  quail  do  flore I97 

Now  with  the  moon  the  day-star  Lucifer 

Quando  la  luna  e  la  stella  diana 245 

O  Bicci  pretty  son  of  who  knows  whom 

Bicci  novel figliuol  di  non  so  cui 1 54 

Often  the  day  had  a  most  joyful  morn 

Spesso  di  gioia  nasce  ed  incomenza ...     229 


298  Index  of  First  Lines. 

PAGE 

Of  that  wherein  thou  art  a  questioner 

Di  ciò  che  stato  sei  diviandatore 127 

O  Lady  amorous 

Donila  amorosa , 251 

O  Love  O  thou  that  for  my  fealty 

O  tu  Amore  che  jfi'  hai  fatto  martire 122 

O  Love  who  all  this  while  hast  urged  me  on 

Amor  che  lungamente  ni'  hai  menato 249 

On  the  last  words  of  what  you  write  to  me 

Al  motto  diredan  prima  ragione 128 

O  Poverty  by  thee  the  soul  is  wrapped 

O  Povertà  come  tu  sei  un  manto m 

O  sluggish  hard  ingrate  what  doest  thou 

O  lento  pigro  iìigì'ato  ignar  che  fai 115 

O  thou  that  often  hast  within  thine  eyes 

O  tu  che  porti  negli  occhi  sovente 99 

Pass  and  let  pass  this  counsel  I  would  give 

Per  consiglio  ti  do  de  passa  passa 263 

Prohibiting  all  hope 

Levandomi  speranza 236 

Remembering  this  how  Love 

Memorando  ciò  che  Amore 205 

Right  well  I  know  thou  'rt  Alighieri's  son 

Ben  so  che  fosti  fglitiol  d^  Alighieri 155 

Round  her  red  garland  and  her  golden  hair 

Sovra  li  fior  vermigli  e  i  capei  d' oro 162 

Sapphire  nor  diamond  nor  emerald 

Diamante  ne  smeraldo  ne  zaffino 201 

Say  wouldst  thou  guard  thy  son 

Vuoi  guardar  tuo  figliuolo 275 

Set  Love  in  order  thou  that  lovest  me 

Ordina  quesf  Amore  o  tu  che  m' ami 183 

So  greatly  thy  great  pleasance  pleasured  me 

Si  ni' abbellìo  la  vostra  gran  piacenza 129 

Song  't  is  my  will  that  thou  do  seek  out  Love 

Ballata  io  vo  che  tit  ritruovi  Amore 36 

Stay  now  with  me  and  listen  to  my  sighs 

Venite  a  intender  li  sospiri  miei 67 

Such  wisdom  as  a  little  child  displays 

Saver  che  sente  un  picciolo  fantino 224 

That  lady  of  all  gentle  memories 

Era  venuta  tiella  mente  mia \       69 

That  star  the  highest  seen  in  heaven's  expanse 

Questi'  altissifna  stella  che  si  vede 146 

The  devastating  flame  of  that  fierce  plague 

V  ardente  fiamma  della  fiera  peste 113 


Index  of  First  Lines,  299 

PAGE 

The  dreadful  and  the  desperate  hate  I  bear 

Il  pesshno  e  il  crudcl  odio  che'' io  porto 136 

The  eyes  that  weep  for  pity  of  the  heart 

Gli  occhi  dolenti  per  pietà  del  core 65 

The  flower  of  virtue  is  the  heart's  content 

Fior  di  virtù  si  è  gentil  coraggio 238 

The  fountain-head  that  is  so  bright  to  see 

Ciascuna  fresca  e  dolce  fontanella 103 

The  King  by  whose  rich  grace  His  servants  be 

Lo  Re  che  merta  i  suoi  servi  a  ristoro 151 

The  lofty  worth  and  lovely  excellence 

Lo  gran  valore  e  lo  pregio  amoroso 207 

The  man  who  feels  not  more  or  less  somewhat 

Chi  noji  sente  d' Amore  o  tanto  0  quanto 131 

The  other  night  I  had  a  dreadful  cough 

V  altra  notte  mi  ven7ie  una  gran  tosse 156 

The  sweetly-favored  face 

La  dolce  ciera  piacente 213 

The  thoughts  are  broken  in  my  memory 

Ciò  che  ni  incontra  nella  mente  more 41 

The  very  bitter  weeping  that  ye  made 

V  amaro  lagrimar  che  voi  faceste 71 

There  is  a  time  to  mount  to  humble  thee 

Tempo  vien  di  salire  e  di  scendere 1S6 

There  is  a  vice  prevails 

Par  che  uìi  vizio  pur  regni 273 

There  is  a  vice  which  oft 

Un  vizio  è  che  laudato 271 

There  is  among  my  thoughts  the  joyous  plan 

Io  ho  pensato  in  fare  uii  gioiello 245 

Think  a  brief  while  on  the  most  marvellous  arts 

Sèi-  subietto  preclaro  O  Cittadini 1S2 

This  book  of  Dante's  very  sooth  to  say 

In  verità  questo  libel  di  Dafite 125 

This  fairest  lady  who  as  well  I  wot 

Questa  leggiadra  donna  ched  io  sento 122 

This  fairest  one  of  all  the  stars  whose  flame 

La  bella  stella  che  sua  fa?n?na  tiene 2S8 

This  is  the  damsel  by  whom  Love  is  brought 

Questa  è  la  giovinetta  ch''  amor  guida 146 

Thou  sweetly-smelling  fresh  red  rose 

Rosa  fresca  aulentissima 172 

Thou  that  art  wise  let  wisdom  minister 

Provvedi  saggio  ad  està  visioìte 1 28 

Thou  well  hast  heard  that  Rollo  had  two  sons 

Come  tidit'  hai  due  figliuoli  ebbe  Rollo 28 1 


300  Index  of  First  Lines. 

PAGE 

Though  thou  indeed  hast  quite  forgotten  ruth 

Sc  in'  hai  del  Uitto  obliato  mercede 99 

Through  this  my  strong  and  new  misaventure 

La  forte  e  nova  mia  disavventura 100 

To  a  new  world  on  Tuesday  shifts  my  song 

E  il  Martedì  li  do  un  nuovo  inondo 246 

To  every  heart  which  the  sweet  pain  doth  move 

A  ciascun' alma  presa  e  gentil  core 28 

To  hear  the  unlucky  wife  of  Bicci  cough 

Chi  udisse  tossir  la  mal  fatata 155 

To  see  the  green  returning 

Quando  veggio  rinverdire 214 

To  sound  of  trumpet  rather  than  of  horn 

A  suon  di  tromba  innanzi  che  di  corno 105 

To  the  dim  light  and  the  large  circle  of  shade 

Al  poco  giorno  ed  al  gran  cerchio  d'  ombra 88 

Two  ladies  to  the  summit  of  my  mind 

Due  donne  in  cima  della  mente  mia 87 

Unto  my  thinking  thou  beheld'st  all  worth 

Vedesti  al  mio  parere  ogni  valore 90 

Unto  that  lowly  lovely  maid  I  wis 

A  quella  amorosetta  forosella 103 

Unto  the  blithe  and  lordly  fellowship 

Alia  brigata  nobile  e  cortese 239 

Upon  a  day  came  Sorrow  in  to  me 

Un  dì  si  venne  a  me  Melancolìa 85 

Upon  that  cruel  season  when  our  Lord 

Quella  crudel  stagion  che  a  giudicare 232 

Vanquished  and  weary  was  my  soul  in  me 

Vinta  e  lassa  era  già  V  anima  mia 123 

Weep  Lovers  sith  Love's  very  self  doth  weep 

Piangete  amanti  poi  che  piange  Amore 31 

Were  ye  but  constant  Guelfs  in  war  or  peace 

Così  faceste  voi  0  guerra  0  pace 238 

Wert  thou  as  prone  to  yield  unto  my  prayer 

Così  fossi  tu  acconcia  di  donarmi 267 

Whatever  good  is  naturally  done 

Qualunque  ben  si  fa  naturalmente 132 

Whatever  while  the  thought  comes  over  me 

Quantunque  volte  lasso  mi  rimembra 68 

What  rhymes  are  thine  w^hich  I  have  ta'en  from  thee 

Quai  son  le  cose  vostre  cV  io  vi  tolgo 125 

Whence  come  you  all  of  you  so  sorrowful 

Onde  venite  voi  così  pensose 80 

When  God  had  finished  Master  Messerin 

Quando  Iddio  Messer  Messerin  fece ;     .     .     261 


Index  of  First  Lines.  301 

PAGE 

When  I  behold  Becchina  in  a  rage 

Quando  veggio  Becchina  corrucciata 134 

When  Lucy  draws  her  mantle  round  her  face 

Chi  vedesse  a  Lucia  un  var  capptizzo 187 

When  the  last  grayness  dwells  throughout  the  air 

Quando  /'  aria  comiìicia  a  farsi  bruna 289 

Whether  all  grace  have  failed  I  scarce  may  scan 

Non  so  j'  è  mercè  che  mo  veno  a  meno 233 

Whoever  without  money  is  in  love 

Chi  è  senza  dentari  innamorato 137 

Who  is  she  coming  whom  all  gaze  upon 

Chi  è  questa  che  vien  eh'  ogìC  uom  la  mira 92 

Whoso  abandons  peace  for  war-seeking 

Chi  va  cherendo  guerra  e  lassa  pace 224 

Who  utters  of  his  father  aught  but  praise 

Chi  dice  di  siio  padre  altro  che  onore 141 

Why  from  the  danger  did  not  mine  eyes  start 

Perchè  Jionfui'o  a  me  gli  occhi  dispenti loi 

Why  if  Becchina's  heart  were  diamond 

Se  di  Becchiiia  il  cor  fosse  diamante 132 

Within  a  copse  I  met  a  shepherd-maid 

In  un  boschetto  trovai  pastorella 106 

Within  the  gentle  heart  Love  shelters  him 

Al  cor  gentil  ripara  sempre  Amore 187 

With  other  women  I  beheld  my  love 

Io  vidi  doìine  coji  la  donna  mia 92 

Woe's  me  by  dint  of  all  these  sighs  that  come 

Lasso  per  forza  de''  juolti  sospiri 74 

Wonderful  countenance  and  royal  neck 

Viso  mirabil  gola  morganata 129 

Yea  let  me  praise  my  lady  whom  I  love 

Io  vo  del  ver  la  mia  donna  lodare 189 

Ye  graceful  peasant-girls  and  mountain-maids 

Vaghe  le  montanine  e  pastorelle 284 

Ye  ladies  walking  past  me  piteous-eyed 

Voi  donne  che  pietoso  atto  mostrate 80 

Ye  pilgrim-folk  advancing  pensively 

Deh  peregrini  che  pensosi  andate      .     , 76 

You  that  thus  wear  a  modest  countenance 

Voi  che  portate  la  sembianza  umile 5° 

Your  joyful  understanding  lady  mine 

Madonna  vostra  altera  canoscenza 225 


THE   END. 


Mr 


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